"SHE'S dyin'— now; they don't s'pect her to live another hour," said one of our little village boys to me the other day, rather late in the afternoon. The child was full of concern, and looked as if he expected me to reply, "Then I will go at once to see her." It was a house to which I did not feel at liberty to go unseat, and at such a time; still, like the pleading tongue of a passing-bell, the solemn words, "She's dying now—she's dying now," seemed to say, "Pray for her soul!" And there was deep, dire need to pray for this soul passing into eternity. The young woman had utterly neglected her soul, she had despised her day of visitation. For years she had seen the messengers of glad tidings—their feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace—pass by, and even stand at her door; but they had been to her a derision and a reproach—men to be scorned, and to be set at naught. She had never, so far as I knew, even so much as once responded to the numberless invitations given her just to come and hear of Christ. "Poor dying soul!" thought I, "it must be hard, to say the least, for you to be Saved on a death-bed.”
It was a sweet spring evening, and as soon is the sun had set, the whole choir of birds n the well-preserved wood, over against our hamlet, broke forth in their melodious evensong. It was already late, when a knock at my door roused me from my work.
It was the sister of the dying girl.
“Would you please come and see my sister?" she said, her voice choked with sobs: we don't think she can last over the turn of the night, and she's so anxious to be saved.”
I went with her at once, of course, feeling deeply the solemnity of the call to speak of Jesus to such a dying soul, but thankful also or the words, "She's so anxious to be saved.”
We were soon at the cottage of the dying girl. There was a dim light in one of the windows—that of the death-chamber. How sickly it seemed! What a contrast to the sweet, clear lights of the heavens above!
And there was the little garden-gate, where, four nights before, she had stood in the moonlight with her lover.
If it was sombre outside the death-chamber, it was ghastly within. There, on a bed, around which stood three or four women, and at the head of which sat her lover, lay the dying girl. The dim light of the one candle revealed a face I can never think of but with horror. Oh, those eyes! over which the darkness of death had already come, but which yet seemed to start from their sockets with eagerness to pierce the gloom I “Why do you keep me in the dark?" she would keep saying. As I took her hands, saying how sorry I was to see her so ill, I felt that they were already cold, and lost no time in beginning to speak of Jesus; but to all I said, she replied, in a passionate and bitter tone, "He won't forgive me.!”
“He is ever ready to forgive," I replied. "He won't," she answered; "He won't forgive me!”
“But He died to save us. You believe that Jesus died on the cross for sinners, don't you?”
“Oh, yes, I believe that! But He won't forgive me!”
“Oh," I said, “if you had wronged any of us, we would forgive you, now, at once; and God is full of mercy.”
“He won't forgive me! Oh, my wicked life I've been a wicked sinner! Amos 1 going to die to-night?" As she asked this question she half-raised herself, and gazed with fearful eagerness into my face.
I could only say, "I don't know; but, oh! I beg you to trust the Lord Jesus to save your soul.”
“Oh, I must not die to-night," she said, taking no notice of my entreaty. "I'm not prepared to die! I'll get through to-night, and He'll forgive me to-morrow.”
“Hush!" said I; "'Now is the accepted time now is the day of salvation.' God saves all who believe on His Son. Oh, behold Him! Look at Him—crucified for sinners!”
“How can I look at Him?" she answered, impatiently. "I don't see Him. Oh, He won't forgive me I”
“Ask Him," I said, remembering the words, "Whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”
Looking upwards, she cried, "Lord, forgive me!" But, after a pause of a moment or two, she exclaimed, in the bitterness of despair, "Oh, He won't speak!”
I could not but remember how it is written, "They shall call upon Me, but I will not answer," yet could not give her up, and tried again to lead her poor heart to Christ, and repeated some words of the Scripture to her. But she made no reply. Deeply eager for her soul, I asked her if she had heard the Scripture.
“I want to sleep," she said, in a tone which forbade me to trouble her more.
We then knelt, and prayed for her, entreating the Lord to save her, to incline her heart to believe on Him; and when we rose from our knees, her sister, who was deeply anxious about her, implored her to cry for mercy before it would be too late.
“I'm not going to die to-night," she said. "I'm not prepared to die. He won't forgive me to-night: He'll forgive me to-morrow. I'll see the daylight yet!”
“He'll forgive you now, not to-morrow, my dear!" said her sister, weeping.
“To-morrow!" was her reply. "He'll forgive me to-morrow.”
The sister continued to plead with her, but to no purpose. At last, drawing her sister close to her, the dying girl said, "I'm going to sleep, and, if I wake no more, you'll forgive me?" Her sister's loving "Yes, my dear," seemed completely to satisfy the dying girl.
“Oh," I thought, "if you had but the same confidence in God!" but I dared not interrupt, nor even continue to listen to what I perceived was not meant for a stranger's ear.
When this private talk was over, she drew her hands under the bed-clothes, and composed herself, as if for sleep. “What o'clock is it? “she asked, as her sister tenderly arranged the coverings. "Eight o'clock.”
“Eight o'clock at night?" "Yes, my dear." "Eight o'clock at night," she repeated, in solemn, measured tones. “Good night all; I'm going to sleep. I’ll see the morning; He'll forgive me to-morrow.”
She spoke no more—these were her last words. Shortly after it was evident she was going. "Call them up," said the sister, and immediately the father and brothers were by the bedside. Deep and solemn was the silence, broken only by the breathing of the dying girl, and the subdued sobbing of the living. It was broken at length by the sister, who, in a voice of anguish, exclaimed, looking across to her weeping father, "Oh, father, this is a death-bed without Jesus! Oh, my sister! my sister! to die like this!”
“She's gone!" said someone; and so, indeed, she was. One by one the men left the chamber, weeping as men rarely weep. The lover was the last to go; and never shall I forget his look of agonized farewell.
Alas! for those who must take a long, a last parting from those they loved on earth so tenderly!
Despise not the love of Christ, slight not His love, lest the time shall come when you, too, will cry, "He won't forgive me!”
Dear young friend, how is it with you? Are you a Christ-rejecter? Is there room in your heart for every friend but Jesus? Do you see no beauty in Him—the Chiefest among ten thousand—the altogether lovely?
E. B—R