IT was a Lord's Day morning in December, one of those clear winter mornings, which are so enjoyable and exhilarating to the strong, but which, being so often preceded, as was this, by a night of sharp frost, are so often fatal to the weak. The quiet of the sacred morn pervaded my little home, and the beautiful scene—wood, meadow-land, and fallow field—which lay stretched out before it reposed in sweet resemblance of Sabbath rest. Ever and anon I paused amidst my household duties, at the window or the open door, to breathe in its spirit both of beauty and repose.
There was nothing in the winter's morning to suggest death, unless to such as sought for such suggestions; but if death were thought of at all, it was in connection with resurrection from it. It is not for long, however, that we are permitted in this world of graveyards to forget the bitter truth that death reigns. My mood of tranquil morning joy was soon disturbed by a hasty summons into his presence, who is so truly called the king of terrors.
A young woman was at the gate, and her message was—
"Will you come, please, and see my mother; she is at the point of death, and wants to see you?”
Telling her I would come immediately, I prepared to go, saying, rather bitterly, to myself, I feared it was another case of sending at the last moment for a religious friend to help make a so-called “peace with God."
Still we know that "while the lamp holds on to burn, the greatest sinner may return," and as I hurried on along the road I prayed that it might he so in this case.
It was one of a row of four or five neat cottages to which I went. As soon as I stepped into the clean, sanded kitchen, I could hear the labored breathing of the dying woman; and it was with trembling limbs I ascended the well-scrubbed stairs, thinking the while that it was probably all too late. Scrupulously clean was the bed-room through which I was led to the death-chamber, where, covered with sheets of coarse material, but of snowy whiteness, she lay whom I had come to see—a woman of some sixty years.
She was propped up by pillows, to ease her in breathing, for she was dying, the women about her said, of heart disease and dropsy, and could breathe only in that position. To my great relief I saw she was quite sensible; so after a few inquiries, in the course of which I found that she was quite aware that she was dying, I asked her if she was prepared to enter the presence of God.
Then came a hush and a deep silence in the room. Not a sound was to be heard save the ticking of the clock, which stood upon the drawers, solemnly measuring out for her the last of life, solemnly telling that soon for her there should be time no longer. With quivering lips, in distinct though tremulous accents, she replied—
“No, I am not that. I can't say as I'm prepared; I've not been the woman as I ought to have been."
A suppressed sob from the women around her followed this avowal of unpreparedness to enter the solemn eternity just at the door. To me, the answer, though fearfully solemn, was in a sense satisfactory. I felt thankful for its directness, its truthfulness, for the conviction, the consciousness it expressed of being unfit to appear before God. If she had spoken well of herself in the least—and she might have done so, for although she said of herself that she had not been the woman she ought to have been, I knew her to be one of the nicest women of the place—I should have felt very hopeless indeed.
There was no mistaking from her looks and her tones the reality of the desire to be prepared, and her deep regret that she had not been the woman she ought to have been, so I proceeded to try to show her that although she had not been that, she might yet be made meet to be partaker of the inheritance of the saints in light. I was anxious, however, that she should receive the good word of grace from the Lord's very own words; so turning to John 3, I read to her of the Son of Man being lifted up on the cross—dying there for sinners, and as the Object for the dying sinner to look unto and be saved; and also read of God's love in giving His Son, and the Lord's own words, " that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish," and I begged her just to take what God has given—just to believe on the only begotten Son of the Father, sent, not to condemn the world, but to save it.
She followed with deep attention and interest, responding intelligently to every remark I paused to make, receiving it all, indeed, more than I ever before saw any one, "as a little child."
"Now, do you believe on that only begotten Son?" I asked, when I had done reading and remarking.
“Yes," she said, in a bright, confident tone, “I believe that God gave Him for the world, and for me amongst them."
"Then," I replied, "you know what is said of those who believe in Him?’ Whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.' "
She repeated the words, familiar indeed to her, and after a little more conversation I left.
I went again in the evening, but could only remain a few minutes, as the doctor came in.
I remember well, however, her exclaiming, “God must have loved the world to give His Son. I have sons, but I couldn't do that with them." I had not been speaking of this, nor had I in the morning insisted so much upon God's love in giving, as upon the necessity of the death of the Son given, and then of the sinner's only hope—Christ, who died to save the lost. It reminded me of that word (John 5:2424Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life. (John 5:24)): “He that heareth My word, and believeth on Him that sent Me, hath everlasting life; " and I could but thank Him that she had heard His word.
The next day my friend again spoke of how God must have loved the world to give His Son; and when I remarked how the Son must have loved, to be willing to be given, and that for and to those who loved Him not, she exclaimed, “It’s just wonderful, it's wonderful; " and I could but join with her. And indeed His love never before appeared so wonderful: the heart felt bowed under the sense of it. "But He is called 'Wonderful,'" she went on; “’Councilor," The Mighty God.' "
On a following day, during the few hours was with her, I contented myself with merely asking if she trusted Jesus. She replied, very slowly, “Yes, yes, I can trust Jesus, my Saviour, my friend."
Again, some days after the woman's thoughts, even in wandering, ran on things divine. Once I caught the words "passed from death unto life," and another time, "I could almost hear what Jesus was saying to me." Then she tried to explain to me that she was "light-headed," and presently asked, "Who was it blessed the insane?” I said “Jesus," and told her of the man whom He made to sit at His feet, clothed and in his right mind, which seemed to satisfy her.
After this my poor friend had to pass through a time of great distress. It was a day to her indeed of "pains and groans, and dying stripes." But I felt it was well. In her weakness, that day, she would constantly cry, "Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation; "and” God so loved the world."
But as the day wore on she was again resting in peace on Christ. Once I caught the words “With Me in Paradise," and shortly after she said, “Is it to-morrow thou shalt be with me in Paradise?" “No, it is to-day, and I think it will be really to-day' with you."
Sleep then prevented reply; but on her awakening, I caught her words, "With Me."
It was touching to hear her once call out the word “Saviour" with great distinctness, extending her arms as if indeed she saw the Lord; and then she said "To-morrow."
Late in the evening I wished her “Goodnight evermore," and then asked her solemnly, “What has Jesus done for you?" She said with much distinctness, “He has saved me from my sins; God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son,' “and her voice faltered—she could say no more. I was much struck on one of the days I visited her, when, late in the afternoon, her young married daughter from a distance came to see her. The mother merely whispered her daughter's name, asked for “the children," and then repeated “Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation." Her heart was away from the earth and filled with thoughts of eternity.
Surely those words can never be forgotten by that daughter—her mother's last words to her. Surely, so often repeated as they were, they can never be forgotten by the rest of her family, or by the women—her neighbors—who waited on her with so much true kindness. May these solemn words not be forgotten by you, dear reader, of this true unvarnished tale. E. B.—R