Jack came by the nickname of “praying Jack” honestly. He did pray—oh, how he prayed!—for all he came in contact with, and especially for the men on his ship, for Jack was a sailor. The other sailors were not so sure they appreciated his prayers, and they made his life miserable at times.
Thomas Welsh, one of the sailors, seemed especially gifted in thinking up new torments for young “praying Jack,” but one day he came down with a very dangerous fever. The others promptly began to distance themselves from contagion, and Thomas Welsh was left pretty much alone in his sickness.
“Shall poor Thomas Welsh,” said Jack to himself, “die without anyone speaking to him of the love of Christ? Doesn’t the Bible say, Love your enemies . . . and pray for them which . . . persecute you? Thank God I can read my Bible. I’ll read it to Tom. At least, I’ll try—if he’ll let me.”
And so Jack did, and there as the sun went down he sat reading to the dying sailor some of God’s words.
“All we like sheep have gone astray,” read Jack, “and the Lord [has] laid on Him [Jesus] the iniquity of us all. He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities. The Lord is ready to forgive.”
But there in his berth lay the sailor with a body almost consumed with fever and a mind distracted by despair.
“Oh, Welsh, believe this good news,” said Jack gently.
There was no response from the dying man.
“O Lord, open his heart to receive the love of Christ,” prayed Jack fervently. “O God, save Tom Welsh!”
There was another pause while he waited for the sailor to speak, but no words came.
“O Lord, he cannot hope in Thy mercy.”
“No!” exclaimed the dying man; “there can be no mercy for me.”
“He says, O God, there is no mercy for him; but isn’t there plenteous redemption with Thee if he will just receive it?”
“I can’t,” groaned the sailor, “I never prayed.”
“O God, hear his groan! It’s the groan of the helpless.”
“Yes,” repeated Welsh; “helpless—I am helpless.”
“O Jesus, art Thou not a helper of the helpless? Tell him Thou didst die for the ungodly.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Tom in agony as he clasped his hands more tightly. “He couldn’t have died for me—for drinking, swearing Tom Welsh.”
“Show him, Lord, that whosoever comes unto Thee, Thou wilt in no wise cast out.”
Jack took the dying man’s hands in his and lifted them up. “Oh, draw him by Thy power! Who can save him? We can’t. Lord, do save Tom Welsh!”
At last light dawned upon the midnight blackness of Tom’s soul. He saw his sins; he saw the blood of Christ, and he saw there was mercy for him.
“Jack,” said Welsh a few hours before he died, “give me your hand. Can you forgive me, Jack?”
Jack pressed the sailor’s hand. He couldn’t speak, but there was no need for it. Welsh understood the meaning of that pressure.
“I’ve been a bad fellow to you, Jack. Oh, what a change now! And all this thanks to you!”
“No, not to me! To Christ Jesus!”
“Yes, yes, I know that. But still, Jack, it was you who read to me and talked to me and prayed for me. Good-by, Jack. My poor body is a wreck down to the very keel, but through the mercy of God my soul is going into port in full sail. I shall soon drop anchor, and then—oh, for the leap on shore!”
The preaching of the cross is to them that perish, foolishness; but unto us which are saved, it is the power of God.
Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while He is near.