"I believe I have written nothing for you," said a kindly Christian man to a soldier who was very ill in an army hospital. He was a strong-framed man, with glowing eyes, self-willed and arrogant, thoughtful yet unconfiding, repulsing all who sought to find a way to his heart.
"Shall I not write to your friends since you are unable?”
"I have no one to write to.”
"No one? No mother living?”
"No," was the reply.
As I stood, the eyes seemed softer and deeper; there was a swelling about the face and neck, a slight movement of his lip. Would he speak? Would he confide? I waited, and then asked the old question, "Can I do anything for you?”
"Can you undo?" burst from him.
What an utterance! Confession, remorse, agony. "None can undo—but it is left for us to do." "Do! What can we do? Sick—lying here, maybe dying—what can I do?”
"What would you do?”
"Undo," said he vehemently.
"Each one of us would do something, had not God in His wisdom forbidden it. But you are doing even now; you are repenting.”
"What's that? What good will that do?"
"It may lead to faith and pardon.”
"I would not pardon myself if I could. I don't deserve it." The lips were firm, the eyes clear, the muscles no longer swollen. He paused a moment, then added, "I don't want pardon, deserving what I do.”
It was clear that no ordinary counsels or consolations could reach this man's heart. The fountain being opened, he went on to tell the story of his life.
Among other confessions he said: "Let me tell you what I did. There was a boy in my tent that used to pray. I loved that boy; and yet I swore in his ears till he stopped praying and learned to swear. I saw him shot down in battle at my side. With one of the oaths he learned from me upon his lips, he went with it into the presence of God.”
So he went on with the terrible tale—stolid almost—unhoping quite. Not even that blessed word of salvation, "The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin," could touch his heart or engage his trust. What a lesson! What a question! "Can you undo?”