WHILE visiting in a hospital a few years ago I became greatly interested in a man named W. J. P—. He had been a ship's engineer, but consumption had marked him for its prey, and, though still able to walk about slowly from ward to ward, he knew that his days on earth were numbered.
During the first talk we had together I found that he had been religiously brought up, but that, never having personally had to do with God, his religion had melted away like the dew of morning; and he had finally run away to sea. A nicely-behaved, intelligent, thoughtful man of a little over thirty, he did not give one the impression of having sunk very deeply in sin; but his own account of himself was that he was "the black sheep of the family.”
He saw and owned his state as a sinner, and appeared interested as we spoke together of God's way of salvation. But afterward it seemed to me that he avoided any close talk on the subject; and when I was in his ward talking to a Swede who was dying of the same disease, he would manage to slip out of the way.
But one day, a few weeks later, he stayed in the ward, and we had a long and serious talk in which he complained that his heart was so "callous," that though he knew the truth of it all, he felt so unconcerned about it. Being very anxious about him, I wrote a letter to him, begging him to come to the Lord Jesus just as he was, and telling him that his own callous state was one of the things he could bring and spread out before the Savior; he could tell Him just how hard his heart was, and he would surely find that he would not be cast out.
On my next visit I met him in the corridor, and he said, "Your letter suited my case to a ‘t.'”
We went into the ward together, and I think it was on that occasion that he told me there was someone he had wronged, and he knew he ought to write and make confession, but was too proud to do so I think this had anything to do with his not finding peace? I told him that it probably had; that his salvation certainly did not depend on that letter, or on anything else that he could do; and yet that very likely the pride which prevented the fulfillment of a known duty was a barrier to his receiving the blessing God was ready to bestow upon him. And I begged him not to put off his confession any longer.
After that I was prevented for some time from paying my usual visits to the hospital; but I wrote to him again, and received a letter in reply which led me to trust that poor P—had indeed taken refuge in the Lord Jesus as his Savior, though he could hardly be said to have "full assurance of faith." He spoke of having in the past been "trying to work out a share of my own in the work, when Christ has completed it," but he seemed to have now really cast himself upon Him alone for salvation.
I saw him again soon after, and he told me that the letter of confession had been sent off, and that he had received an answer. He now explained that it was to his parents he had referred in our previous conversation,—that for many years he had left them in ignorance of his whereabouts, and then had been too proud to write and humble himself.
Is the same foolish pride holding you back, dear friend, from confession to God against Whom you have certainly sinned, and to any fellow-creature whom perhaps you have wronged? God is the One to Whom, above all, confession is due, but confession to the wronged fellow-creature is also a clear duty.
Our poor friend's pride and neglect were not without their punishment, for he wrote too late to receive the forgiveness of one of his injured parents his father had already been dead several years. However, his mother was still living, and assured him of her forgiveness.
Dear P—was evidently now resting in the Savior, though without any great manifestation of joy; and I felt comforted about him.
About this time I was called to pass through a great bereavement; P—heard of it, and, though very weak and suffering, sent me a letter of sympathy. He began with the words, "My dear friend in Christ;" and, after referring to the trial that had fallen upon me, he said, "I don't think I will last a great while longer, I shall soon be at home with Jesus, where I shall meet my beloved! father. God bless you and yours.”
When I saw him again, he told me it had been proposed that he should take the Lord's Supper; but he said, " I don't feel worthy: it seems to me as if only elders and deacons of the church were fit to take it!'
I tried to spew him that it is the privilege of the simplest'' believer thus to obey his Lord's command, "Do this in remembrance of me," but when I left him, he still seemed uncertain as to whether he might dare to do so.
However on my next visit, I had scarcely taken my seat at his bedside, when he told me that he had taken the Lord's Supper a day or two previously.
“It was all, and more than all I expected it to? be," he whispered in his weak trembling voice, and he went on to tell me as well as he was abler what joy he had had in connection with it. I knew that he was not looking at it as a sacrament, or means of salvation, and therefore I could but rejoice that the Lord Jesus had been so "known of" him "in the breaking of bread.”
“I know now," he went on, "what poor A—meant when he used to say, I'm so happy.'" (A—was a Swede who, after years of backsliding, had been restored in soul when in the hospital, and who, by his shining face, and broken expressions of joy, had borne a bright witness for his Lord till called home to Himself).
By-and-by dear P—whispered feebly, but in a tone of restful satisfaction, "My Jesus!”
Oh, what joy it was to see the change wrought by the grace of God in the heart not long ago "so callous," as he had himself expressed it.
I am not sure whether it was during that visit or the next that, seeing his intense weakness, I quoted to him the verse, "I, the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand.”
“He's got 'em both," he whispered in reply.
If there is one reading this little paper who is looking to the Lord Jesus, and yet afraid, yet doubting, I do beg you to ponder over these words from the lips of a dying man. P—had hung back doubtingly he could not give a very clear account of the way in which he had passed from death unto life, but, looking away from his own sins, and doubts, and everything of self, he could claim the Lord Jesus as his own, and thus knew that, feeble though he himself might be, his trembling hands were both held in those of the One Who is "mighty to save," and "able to keep.”
Your salvation, dear reader, does not depend upon the amount of your faith, but upon its object. Don't be occupied with your own faith, but with your living, loving Savior, the Son of God, Who loved you, and gave Himself for you; and, as you look at Him, your faith and joy will increase. Only don't make them your object: Christ alone-must be that.
Dear P—grew rapidly worse, and became so weak that he could not bear to be read or talked to; but, I heard one more word of testimony from his lips.
“I am so weak," he said, "that I can't think, and I can't pray; but I look at Jesus on the cross, and I say, 'Lord!'”
It was not at a crucifix P—was looking; he referred solely to the vision given to the eye of faith: and cannot you too, dear trembling soul„ look at Jesus dying for your sins on the cross„ raised again for your justification, and seated now on His Father's throne on high: cannot you look„ and from the depths of your heart say to Him, "Lord?”
Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.”
A few days later dear P—left his poor suffering body, and went to be forever with the One Who, even down here, had held "both his hands.”