I WAS one day visiting a poor woman, who had been bedridden for years, and a great sufferer, but when expressing some little word of sympathy she said, “Well, I do suffer, but I have Christ with me; my case is not half so bad as that of a poor old woman I have heard of today, living out at M—. She is over 80, and has no one to nurse her, but her infirm husband; she is worn out with pain, and her one cry is, Oh if I could but die to get release from this agony; but she is without hope, without Christ, and will not let anyone speak to her about her soul.”
It was too late to go such a distance that night, but I could not forget what I had heard.
So old, in such pain—longing to go—and yet—only a terrible blank beyond.
The next day I ventured to see her: having crept up the narrow stairs I found the poor creature moaning with pain, vainly seeking a moment’s ease.
“Who are you, and what have you got?” she said inquiringly; but when after a little while I was going to read a few verses, she said, “Shut that book, I don’t want to hear it, I know all about it; oh, the pain, the agony I’m in.”
And so she could only moan over the misery of her poor diseased body; she would speak of that, and nothing else.
O dear unsaved one, will you not be reconciled now, while you have health and strength? He hath made Him (Christ) to be sin for us, who knew no sin, and now as though God did beseech by us, we pray you in Christ’s stead, be ye reconciled to God.
The next day the snow lay thick on the ground, and I was busily engaged in preparations for leaving the neighborhood, but still I felt I must go and see her once more.
I found her just as suffering, and every remark about her soul was only met by the tale of her weary, weary pain. O how helpless I felt then, as she poured out the heart-rending story of all she had gone through; I could only stand by her bedside, and cry to our God, in my utter weakness, that in His grace, He would open those poor blind eyes, and show her Christ, before it was too late. “I know He died for all,” she said impatiently.
“But that would be of no avail unless He died for you,” I said. “I know He died for me,” she said.
Well, I could only answer “If you know He died for you, you must be saved, for surely He did not die in vain.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then in such an altered voice she suddenly called out,
“O, I see it now; He did die for me, yes, for me; I know He died for me.”
The poor hard old face seemed to relent at last, and the tears poured down as she clasped my hand exclaiming, “Oh! I do bless God He sent you to tell me this; I see it all now, He bore my sins. He died for me, I know it was for me, bless Him and praise Him for it.”
With full hearts we thanked Him together; she seemed as though she could hardy let me go; but she said at last “Well, goodbye, my dear friend; you have been a good friend to me, and I know I shall meet you above.”
I never saw her again; she soon fell asleep; though some of the Lord’s dear people visited her, and found her quite happy, resting in the finished work of Christ, knowing that He had died for her. He had done it all. Reader, can you say, “He died for me?”