It was a terrible sight as she tossed to and fro in physical and mental anguish, with none to point her to the Savior. I had nothing to say, but “The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.”
I was forbidden by her family and doctor to see her again. One text, only one—and no prospect of hearing if it had been received in faith. I had gone forth encouraged by a word from a Christian physician, “Remember, God’s resources are infinite in bringing souls to Himself.”
So in spite of man’s prohibition, I stood again by the dying woman; a strange servant having admitted me. The poor, weary one was in peace; and when I inquired from whence sprang her hope, she repeated: “‘The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.’ All night you seemed to stand by my side repeating it. I asked some one to read in the Bible, but there was no Bible here. The nurse repeated to me some of Wesley’s hymns; but when she was silent I heard again, ‘The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.’”
The thief on the cross had but one sentence of the Word of God—and those blessed words of consolation lighted him through the valley of the shadow of death. It was enough. Better are “five words” “fitly spoken” of the word of life, than a multitude of “thine own words.”