A few years ago a young woman who was living at home with her mother, who had ever been to her an affectionate parent, conceived the singular idea that her mother had really never loved her! Every effort was made by her friends to eradicate the thought she harbored in her mind, and the mother strove anxiously to win back the affections of her child, but all to no purpose. The daughter clung tenaciously to her infatuation, and at length gave effect to it, leaving, solely on this account, her mother’s roof, and betaking herself to a distant part of the city of Glasgow, in which they lived.
There she obtained lodgings, and, strange to say, very shortly afterward the house took fire, and the young woman was in imminent danger of being burned to death. Her mother, however, had rushed to the burning building, and in spite of every entreaty, succeeded in penetrating to the room of her daughter, whom, with superhuman strength, she actually carried down into the open air safe and sound. But the shock and exertion were too much for the devoted mother, and she sank down dead at the feet of her child.
This remarkable circumstance was a terrible lesson for the hitherto infatuated daughter, dispelling Forever the wicked idea she had formed of her parent, and her first and thrilling exclamation was, “Now I know she loved me!” But it was too late. She had found out her lamentable mistake only when it was beyond its remedy. Willingly would she have given all she possessed to have had but a moment’s opportunity of recalling the imputation cast upon her doted mother. But she “found no place for repentance.” The die was cast, and to retrace her steps was as impossible to her as to restrain or reverse the planets in their courses.
And now, dear reader, let me entreat you to consider whether you have net more grievously wronged an infinitely greater love. While your eye has followed my little narrative you have probably felt touched with the self-sacrificing affection of the mother, and grieved over the unfeeling heart of the daughter. Nay, it may also have occurred to you that this young woman would never have been in the burning house but for the perversity of her unbelief in a love that was stronger than death. It was she who occasioned the death of her mother, and the latter laid down her life in rescuing her daughter.
And does it not remind you — surely it must — holy One died, the Just for the unjust, to bring us to God? We sinners caused the death of Christ on account of our sins. Our hardness of heart, our forsaking of God, turning our back upon Him and denying His love — what a course was ours! In point of fact, when rightly seen, it was we who crucified Him, putting Him to open shame. It was my voice among others that cried, “Away with Him! Away with Him! Not this Man, but Barabbas.” It was I who for His love gave Him hatred. But He whose love was such that many waters could not quench it, nor the floods drown it, He endured to the uttermost what was due to you and me, laying down His own life to give everlasting life to us.