Persecution and martyrdom are not as common today as in former times. Christians are no longer stretched on the rack, burned at the stake, nor delivered to wild beasts. Yet scenes somewhat similar have been enacted in a country within a few days’ journey from where most of us live. I allude to Russia, where hundreds of Christians, called “Stundists,” have undergone some form of persecution for Christ’s sake, and because they would not conform to the errors of the Greek Church.
History, too, has given us the record of many more, such as the Waldensians, who were driven from their homes, and forced to hide where they could, to elude their persecutors. But in the present day we are less familiar with suffering of this kind, and in countries where religious liberty is the adopted policy, the utmost that a follower of Christ has to undergo, is the indifference and scorn of the world. In spite of this, we hear of Stundists in their gloomy cells, whose faces shone with joy; we read of martyrs who “entered the flames with a smile upon their faces; and if they smiled when they entered the flames, how much more when they passed in at the eternal gates!” We read of others, like Stephen, who in the supreme moment of agony could pray for their persecutors.
Now what was the secret of their serenity and joy? Why did even their enemies mark the lustre in their eye, and the peace on their brow? And why is it that so many of us, when called to pass through trial and suffering of so minor a character that it cannot be classed in the same category as theirs, hang our heads, and go mournfully on our way? Let us ask ourselves the reason.
In the next chapters I propose giving a short history of the Stundists up to the present date, for which we shall be mainly indebted to the author of a pamphlet entitled, “The Stundists; the story of a great religious revolt.”
The following poem, though not directly bearing on the subject, is worthy of attention, as showing that the early martyrs were animated by the same spirit as their Master, “who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross” (Heb. 12:22Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2)). Doubtless they had often read the words, “Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven; for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.” (Matt. 5:1212Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you. (Matthew 5:12)). And we are confident that the poor persecuted Stundists find comfort in these and similar passages of God’s Word: ―
The Martyrdom of Marius
(from Aunt Jane’s Verses)
“Give the Christian to the lion!”
Wildly cry the Roman throng;
“Yes! to Afric’s tawny lion!”
Shout the warriors, bold and strong.
“Let the hungry lion tear him!”
Echoed glad the laughing crowd:
“Fling him, fling him to the lion!”
Shrieked the noble matron loud.
“Do not spare him―let him tear him!”
Cried the fair patrician girls,
With their dark hair softly braided
Underneath a band of pearls,
With their small feet purple-sanded,
And their arms with bracelets delight,
And their robes of Indian Tissue,
And their black eyes flashing light.
“Date illum, ad Leonem!”
Spake in accents grave and slow,
From their curule seats of honour,
Senators in goodly row:
Then, from flight to flight, redouble
Shout, and cheer, and laughter-peal,
Till the giant Coliseum,
`Neath the tumult seemed to reel:
And the clamours of the people
Through the arch of Titus roll,
All adown the Roman Forum,
To the towering Capitol.
Then a pause;―but hush and listen!
Whence that loud and savage yell?
―’Tis the lion of Sahara,
Raging in his grated cell!―
Fierce with famine and with fetter,
Shaketh he his tawny mane,
For his living prey impatient,
Struggling ‘gainst his bar and chain!―
―But a voice is stealing faintly,
From the next cell, chill and dim―
‘Tis the death-doom’d Christian, chanting,
Soft and low, his dying hymn.
With uplifted hands he prayeth
For the men that ask his blood;
With a holy faith he pleadeth
For that shouting multitude.
They are waiting! Lift the grating!
―Comes he forth, serene, to die;
With a radiance round his forehead,
And a lustre in his eye:
Never, when amidst Rome’s legions,
With the helmet on his brow,
Prest he to the front of battle,
With a firmer step than now.
Lift the grating! he is waiting!
Let the savage lion come!
He can only rend a passage
For the soul to reach her home!
“Brother, thou art gone before us!”
Sung the martyr’s funeral band,
Pacing slowly,―pacing slowly,
(With the torch-lights in their hand)
Through the dark and winding chambers
Of the ancient catacomb.
Where the children of the Saviour
Had their hiding-place and tomb.
Little knew they as they whispered,
Low and sad, the burial psalm.
And as Christ’s dear name was graven,
And a little branch of palm,
That this tombstone, rude and rugged,
Should be deemed a precious gem,
Ages hence,―when crushed and shivered
Is the Caesar’s diadem:
When the wild vine weaves her tendrils
Over palace, fane, and hall,
O’er the “Golden House” of Nero,
And the Coliseum’s wall!