Important
Every soldier that fills in the post-cards we send has a Testament sent to him. If any who send do not receive the Testament it is because the address is either indistinct or not sufficient. We never neglect to send, and the more who apply to us for Testaments, the better we are pleased.
“Blighty”
Lance-Corporal Roberts writes: ― “We were holding the front line, expecting every moment to get the order, ‘Get dressed,’ ready for being relieved, and I was making a final visit to see all were ready. I stayed to speak a word to one of the sentries. He said, ‘Give us a match, Corporal,’ but as I said I had not one, he said, ‘Oh, I forgot, all you have here is tracts!’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and all you want is Jesus.’ ‘Oh, no,’ he said, all I want is Blighty.’ I passed on to the next sentry, when suddenly I heard the sound of a rifle and a cry, and on going back I found the sentry with a bullet in his head. Death, not Blighty, was his portion. Reader, he did not want Jesus; he only wanted the dear homeland; but in a moment he had passed into eternity. You also may not want Jesus; you only want pleasure, fun, life; plenty of time, you say, to think about Jesus when you are old. You may not be in the firing line watched by a deadly sniper, but death may be near you. Where are you going? To heaven or to hell? Are you living in sin? Then you need Jesus and His precious blood to cleanse you. God does not desire your eternal loss, but gave His Son to save you. Will you not seek Him now? You need Him to save you, to keep you from sinning; you need Him when the bullets are flying around you, and you will need Him in the hour of death. The one who trusts the Lord Jesus does not fear death, or the judgment after death. Comrades, you need Him. Why not turn to Him now and accept Him as your Saviour?”
A grand appeal this, from a soldier to soldiers. May God bless it to many. And when they long for the earthly “Blighty,” where their loved ones are, may they be ready for the heavenly home, and believe what the Saviour said, “In My Father’s house are many mansions, if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” This is the true home where every Christian soldier shall spend the years of eternity in the place prepared by Christ for him. Will you be there?
Bringing in the Wounded from no Man’s Land
“We see in our picture, by Matania, a party of R.A.M.C. men bringing in the wounded from No Man’s Land after an action on the Western Front. They are hauling the men over the broken ground so as not to draw the enemy’s fire. The work of the R.A.M.C. between the lines is extremely dangerous, and one which calls for great personal bravery. After an attack has taken place the work of bringing in the wounded begins. Creeping on hands and knees―for no standing thing can live in No Man’s Land during the daytime―the R.A.M.C. party approaches the wounded and hauls them back over the broken shell-pitted grounds to the British lines in safety. Any slight depression in the ground is taken advantage of in this dangerous work. In many cases the work can only be performed at night.”
A scene of desolation and death, where the dead and the wounded lie as they have fallen, and the work of rescue is a task of the greatest danger. Often the work can only be done at night, and even then the risk is great, for sometimes a star-shell, like “a thin, luminous thread,” rises up into the dark sky and bursts into dazzling radiance over the scene. Then if any movement is seen the rifles crackle down the line. Again, often a searchlight shines upon the battlefield, making all as light as day. Still brave men face all this, and gradually drag the wounded back into the British lines. I have known officers and men who have had to lie with their bleeding wounds in shell holes half full of water, and unable to move, for twelve or twenty-four hours, until they could be rescued. How blessed to have Christ with you on that storm-swept battle scene.
Lance-corporal Roberts tells us of one who was brought in dying. He says: “I have just lost a real chum. He was badly wounded as he went up to the firing line. He told his comrades he was not afraid to die as he was ready. As they carried him down the trench he was clasping his Testament and smiling, and tonight around the grave I carried on the message to those present. His life has been a fine testimony for the Master. The night I rejoined from hospital I heard him speaking to the men on the gun team, telling them they knew not the hour or the day when the Son of Man should come.”
Yes, the dear fellows want Testaments. My reader, help us now to send the Word of God to these brave men. Do not hesitate and say, “I’ll think about it.” While you think, men are dying. Send to me today. See the last page.
The Clasp of His Mother’s Hand
A Christian mother died with the hand of her little son clasped in her own. Years passed, and the boy grew to manhood, reckless and abandoned in character. The memory of his mother’s prayers, and of the lessons he had learned at her side, seemed to have faded away. From one excess of wickedness into another he plunged until his cup of iniquity seemed full. Then, through the mercy of God, he was converted. Speaking of his life of sin, he said that hardened as he seemed, and indifferent to all things sacred, there never was a time when, tempted to sin, that he did not feel the clasp of his dying mother’s hand, drawing him from the paths of sin to the ways of holiness, with a force which he found it hard to resist. That mother, though dead, was yet speaking to her boy. Soldiers! with praying mothers, think of their prayers now. Some of you have mothers in heaven; tears often fill your eyes in the trenches when you think of what she did for you before she died. If you are killed in battle, will you meet your mother in heaven? Think of the cradle song she used to sing: ―
“There’s a Friend for little children
Above the bright blue sky;
A Friend who never changes―
Whose love can never die.”
Do you know this Friend?
The Dying Soldier
It was just after the battle of― where hundreds of brave men had fallen and hundreds more were wounded, that a soldier came in haste to the Chaplain’s tent and said, “Chaplain, one of our boys is badly wounded, and wants to see you at once.” “Hurriedly following the soldier,” says the Chaplain, “I was taken to the hospital, and led to a bed upon which lay a noble young soldier. He was pale and blood-stained from a terrible wound above the temple. I saw at a glance that he had but a few hours to live upon earth. Taking his hand I said, ‘Well, my brother, what can I do for you?’ The poor dying soldier looked up in my face, and placing his finger where his hair was stained with his blood, he said, ‘Chaplain, cut a big lock from here for mother―for mother, mind, Chaplain!’ I hesitated to do it. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid, Chaplain, to disfigure my hair. It’s for mother, and nobody will come to see me when I am dead tomorrow.’ I did as he requested me. ‘Now, Chaplain,’ said the dying man, ‘I want you to kneel down by me and return thanks to God.’ ‘For what?’ I asked. ‘For giving me such a mother. O Chaplain, she is a good mother; her teachings comfort and console me now. And, Chaplain, thank God that by His grace I am a Christian. Oh, what would I do now if I wasn’t a Christian? I know that my Redeemer liveth. I feel that His finished work has saved me. And, Chaplain, thank God for giving me dying grace. He has made my dying bed “feel soft as downy pillows are.” Thank Him for the promised home in glory. I’ll soon be there―there where there is no war, nor sorrow, nor desolation, nor death―where I’ll see Jesus, and be forever with the Lord.’ I knelt by the dying man and thanked God for the blessings he had bestowed upon him―the blessings of a good mother, a Christian hope, and dying grace, to bear testimony to God’s faithfulness. Shortly after the prayer he said, ‘Good-bye, Chaplain; if ever you see my mother tell her it was all well!’” SEL.
A Prayer in a Sleeping Hut
The camp seemed to be sleeping under the quiet sky, and only a sentry’s footfalls broke the silence. Inside the military huts, however, voices and laughter could still be heard. “Lights out!” and yet in the darkness one hut was noisy with songs and jests and conversation unfit to be described. Thirty soldiers lay in their bunks, and some of them were half asleep: the rest sufficiently awake to utter their thoughts without restraint. Most of them had been but a short while in the Army, and they were strangers to each other, for their homes were widely scattered in all parts of the country: they had not been able to return thither to say good-bye, though they were to leave for France on the morrow, so they hid their feelings under mocking words and evil language.
Drowsiness was getting the upper hand of them by eleven o’clock. One man, evidently desiring to hear some higher, holier word before he slept, startled all the others by an abrupt question: “I want to know if there is one Christian man in this hut?” The man opposite asked why, not too politely.
“Well,” answered the first speaker, “I want to know if there is a Christian here who is man enough to stand up now and pray for us chaps, that we may have a safe passage to France tomorrow.”
There was a pause; every man seemed to be holding his breath. Then somebody stirred in his bunk and sat up, and a quiet young voice said: “I am a Christian. If you chaps really mean it, I’ll be glad to pray with you and for you.”
“Yes, chummy, I do mean it, thank you,” was the reply. “Now, you chaps, be quiet. Let’s hear him pray.”
A moment’s silence, while the Christian soldier slipped out of his bed and knelt down in the dark.
“Now, lad, go on.”
After the first sentence his words came easily, and he asked for a voyage untroubled by mines and submarines: then there stole into his mind other words, which were not his, but God’s, and he spoke out text after text that made plain the way of salvation. “The blood of Jesus. Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.” “Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.” The clear tones went on, repeating similar verses, and they reached every corner of the sleeping-hut. It was changed from that moment. As the prayer ended― “for Jesus Christ’s sake”―a hearty “Amen” resounded from every bed; and then―
“Thank you, lad. Good-night.”
“Well,” muttered a soldier, thoughtfully, “there must be something in that chap to make a boy like him pray like that in front of all us wicked fellows!”
No wild word broke the stillness after that. The powers of evil were baffled. In the morning the man who had asked for prayer went to the lad and thanked him again, and at seven-thirty all who were leaving for “somewhere in France” hurried up to shake hands with him.
“Good-bye, and God bless you!” he kept saying.
So did the Lord Jesus Christ strengthen one of His soldiers to fight the good fight of faith, and to confess Him openly before men.
A Gift, a Blessing, and a Prayer
A Tommy writes me from the Front. He sends a gift, a blessing and a prayer. He says: ―
“Enclosed please find P.O. for 5/- with which to send a parcel to the Front. May God’s richest blessing be upon those whom it reaches. God be praised, and may God bless you for the splendid work which you are doing. One who is really grateful to you.”
The Prayer
“God forgive me for my sins, which are many and great; make me happy; help me to do that which is right; bless those who pray for me, bless my friends, bless my enemies, bless those who love me, bless those who hate me. Bring this terrible War to an end, when it is for the best and Thy pleasure. I pray for the wounded soldiers, both of the enemy’s and the Allies. Comfort the wounded, comfort the dying. Give the doctors skill whilst performing operations. I am really sorry for my sins, please forgive me. Help me to lead a life more like that of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Help me to do good. Bless my dear father and mother, and sisters; help them in their work. For Christ’s sake, who died that our sins might be forgiven, hear me and answer my prayer if it is Thy pleasure and for the best.”
“Dear Sir, please ask God to hear my prayer, and please pray for me. — A TOMMY.”
“Those Three Lost Years”
A brave soldier lay mortally wounded, knowing that very soon indeed he must die. Several years before he had given his soul into the Saviour’s keeping, and in the prospect of death he could confidently say, “I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him.” But why that sad expression on the manly, handsome face? It is no thought of his comfortless surroundings; it is no grief that his deathbed should be near the field of battle, far from all his loved ones, that so moves the Christian soldier. No, listen to his words to a comrade: “I die as a Christian, and I die contented; but oh! if I could but have died as a Christian worker!”
He was a Christian when he entered the army, and had always kept an unsullied reputation, but he had not “shown his colors,” and stood out boldly as a servant of Christ, and this was his bitter grief. He wished to see his family again, he said, but far, far more to recover lost opportunities, and be able to use his influence in the service of Christ. Again the dying man speaks: “I am peaceful in view of death,” he repeats, “but not joyful and glad. Those three lost years keep coming back upon me.” He tells those of his comrades whom he can see of his mistake, and how it grieves him, and begs his Saviour’s forgiveness for lost opportunities of service.
Then, after lying with closed eyes for a few minutes, he says to his companions, “Do you suppose we shall be able to forget anything in heaven? I would like to forget those three lost years.”
How true are Christ’s words, “The night cometh when no man can work.” Oh, let all of us who are God’s children lay these words to heart and pray that we may not have to mourn over our time on earth as lost time. Having first believed on Christ, it is our duty and privilege to confess Him before men.
“I dare not work my soul to save,
For that my Lord hath done;
But I would work like any slave
For love of God’s dear Son.”
Goodbye
Let Lance,-Sergt. H. H― speak the last word to you this month: ― “My comrades still come to me and ask for Testament cards so that they may send for Testaments. I should be greatly obliged to you if you would send me about two hundred cards. To be candid, I think the trench mortars put the fear of God into their hearts. It is my earnest prayer that that fear may stop there.”