Some few years ago a Christian woman, having decided that she ought to try to put into practice her faith in the efficacy of God’s Word to bring souls into the true light, bought some marked New Testaments to circulate among some of the Jewish women of her town. Several of these little books had gone out with kind personal notes inside them, and one day the last of the series was ready. The lady started on her errand.
The walk lengthened beyond her strength; so she sat down on the seafront to rest a while. One other person sat there with her, and that one was sitting white and still with closed eyes. A few moments passed, and the tired one timidly inquired:
“Are you ill, can I do anything for you?”
The eyes opened; they were dark and despairing. With a sad and hollow voice she said:
“Yes, I am ill—I am ill—I am dying, but no one can help that.” Swift as a thought came the gentle answer.
“Christ only; but what a comfort that He can!”
Suddenly new life seemed to vibrate through the frail form. Anger that almost paralyzed her hearer, rang in the scornful tones of the stranger: the dark eyes blazed with brilliancy.
“Do not mention that name to me! The impostor! The enemy of our race! The accursed one!”
With every nerve throbbing with anxiety to help, the Christian woman paused, uncertain how to answer. Faltering, she began:
“Have you ever read the New Testament?”
“Never!” came the sharp response in the same scathing accents.
“Is that quite fair? To us who know the Book and love it, your conduct seems like condemning a person unheard. You are dying, you say—the New Testament tells of a beautiful life beyond this. O, do read it!” holding it out to her. “O, do read about Him!” And again she held out the small parcel.
A weird smile lit up the sad, thin face.
“Well, nothing can hurt me now. At any rate, you mean well.” And the Jewess took the packet, slipping it into the bag by her side.
A year went by, and again the Christian friend was on the seafront. As she walked along, someone eyed her curiously, but with an unfriendly gaze which made her feel uncomfortable, though she knew not why. Turning to retrace her steps, they met again, and this time the other paused, asking abruptly:
“Are you Miss—?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have a message to give you. Do you remember giving a New Testament to a sick lady in a shelter here a year ago?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she is dead. As she was dying I promised her if I ever met you I would tell you that she died in peace, trusting in your Jesus Christ. I was a fool to promise her, but I did it, and I have kept my word; but I curse you for giving the Book to her; you have destroyed her soul.”
She was turning to go when the Christian woman stopped her.
“The New Testament—where is that?”
“I have it. I promised her to keep it; but no one shall ever see it—it shall do no more harm.”
Quickly she walked away, leaving no chance of an answer; and her hearer went home, so shadowed by the terrible looks and words of hatred, that for days she could hardly give thanks for the precious soul that had been redeemed and was in glory.
Many months sped on their way, marked only by silent prayer for that Jewish sister still in darkness. Then one morning a letter in a strange handwriting with a strange postmark arrived. It was brief and unsigned.
“Your Jewish sister thanks and blesses you. I, too, have read that New Testament, and found the true Messiah. Pray that I may be faithful; all here are against me, especially my husband. He has taken the Book from me. Pray for him also. Yours in the love of Christ.”
More months sped away—then another missive came.
“When this reaches you, I shall be with my sister before the throne. I am dying as she did of consumption, but I want you to know that I have been kept true, and that I have my dear copy of the New Testament again. Last week my husband gave it to me. He said not a word, but he is all kindness and love. I asked him if he had read it; he only said, ‘Ask no questions,’ so I am praying on in hope. Continue your prayers for him.”
Day by day that request was complied with, though the petitioner knew neither the name nor the abode of the one for whom she prayed. But the Hearer of prayer knew and sent one more answer. Two texts of Scripture written on a card came in a foreign envelope. One of them was: “My Word shall not return unto Me void,” a text which speaks convincingly of the hidden power which lives in the inspired Word of divine truth.