A FRIEND of mine used to have a class on Sunday afternoons at Chinkiang, a city which is built on the southern shore of the great Chinese river, Yangtze, close to the spot where it is joined by the Grand Canal.
This little class was not for Chinese children (though there were schools for them too), but for the little foreign children, that is to say, English, Americans, and others. For there are a good many white children living with their parents in China, and they need the gospel as well as the little black-eyed, dark-skinned, Chinese bairns.
And so do you, dear children, who have never been in China at all; for though you have never bowed down to idols of wood and stone, and though you live in what is called a Christian country, you are just as much sinners as the Chinese children, indeed, more so. For think what advantages you have compared with them!
I knew some of the children belonging to this little class, for I sometimes took it for my friend, Mrs. W—, when she was away from home.
However, I am not going to tell you about anything that was said and done when I was there, but about something that happened in connection with it after I had gone away to live in a city where there were no Europeans, and where we saw none but Chinese faces around us every day.
One afternoon, when class was over, and the-children had dispersed, the wee ones no doubt being taken home by their "amaks" (or Chinese nurses), a tiny boy rushed into his mother's room,, crying in the greatest distress, "Mamma, Jesus is dead!" and it was some time before he could be: comforted.
The teacher had that day been telling them about the death of the Lord Jesus; no doubt she had often spoken of it before, but the little fellow had not taken it in. He knew that Jesus was the kind and loving Friend of little children, and all at once he heard that He was dead, and the poor child's heart was nearly broken at the thought. Never more could he bring his little requests to Him, confidently expecting an answer, never more could he tell Him of His childish troubles and joys—no, Jesus was dead, and could never do anything more for him. So the poor little fellow thought, and if his thought had been a right one, there was reason enough for his sorrow.
But we know, thank God, that, though the blessed Savior died, He rose again, and His own words are, “I am. He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore.
We will hope that the little boy at Chinkiang knows by this time that Jesus is not dead. No, He is a living Savior. He died on the cross to blot out your sins, dear children: have you confessed your sinfulness to God, and trusted in His blessed Son as His sent Savior? If so, then you can have the joy of knowing that He not only died, but rose again for you, and that He lives to keep and bless you while you remain on earth, and to take you by-and-by to His happy home in glory.
The Lord Jesus is a real, living, loving Savior for every child who simply believes on Him.