“My Grace is Sufficient for Thee.”
DURING the short reign of Edward the Sixth, the Bible, which had been translated into English, was placed on a desk in most of the parish churches in the land for the use of any who chose to go and read it. The precious book was scarce in those days, and only very rich people could afford to buy one, so that very few indeed had a copy. You may guess, then, how glad those who loved God’s Word must have been to be able to go and read it in the churches. But this state of things did not last long. Edward died, and Mary, a bitter Papist, ascended the throne. As soon as she had clone so, orders were given to have every Bible removed, though in some places these commands were either not received, or were disobeyed. Whatever the reason, it is certain that there still lay the old Bible on the stand in the porch of the little church at Brentwood, in Essex.
One day a youth named William Hunter, apprenticed to a London weaver, being on a visit to his parents, went to the church to read this Bible, for, being a believer in the Lord Jesus, he loved His Word. As he stood over it, lifting up his head in prayer to God, an officer of the popish bishop, called a “sumner,” came that way and saw him. “Why meddlest thou with the Bible?” asked he sternly; “knowest thou how to read? and cans’t thou expound the Scriptures?”
“Father Atwell,” replied the youth meekly, “I take not upon me to expound the Scriptures, but, finding the Bible here, I read it to my comfort.”
The summer then began to rail on the book as a hurtful thing.
“Say not so,” said William, ‘it is God’s book, out of which every one that hath grace may learn to know what pleaseth God, and what is displeasing to Him.”
“Could we not tell formerly as well as now bow God was to be served?”
“Not so well as now,” replied William; “if we might have His blessed Word among us still as we have had; and I pray God that we may have the blessed Bible among us continually.”
Atwell now began to tell him that he was one of those who disliked the queen’s laws, and that Ile had heard how he left London on that account, but that, if he did not turn, he, as well as others, would “broil for their opinions;” to which William replied, “God give me grace that I may believe His Word and confess His name whatever may become of it.”
The summer left him in anger, and meeting a priest, returned with him to the church, where William was still quietly reading, when the priest began to upbraid and threaten him. Knowing what this meant, William returned, home, took a hasty farewell of his parents, and fled from the town.
But the bitter enemies of the Lord’s people were not to be so easily foiled, and a few days afterward a justice sent for the father, and ordered him to produce his son.
“What, sir!” exclaimed the poor father, “would you have me seek my son that he may be burned?”
But remonstrance was vain; these cruel Romanists knew no pity, and the father was compelled to set off in search of his child. He rode about for two or three days, hoping to satisfy the cruel demands of the magistrate without finding his son. Unhappily, the lad happened to see his father at a distance, and went to meet him. When his father told him how matters stood, he insisted on returning with him rather than place his aged parents in peril, and although the poor old father tried to persuade him to flee, he would not, but accompanied him back to Brentwood. The news soon spread that he was found, and that same night young William was seized and put in the stocks. There he lay hour after hour suffering for Christ’s sake, and because he loved his aged parents too well to seek his own safety at the risk of theirs. Was not this a beautiful instance of filial affection and love of the truth?
In the morning he was taken before the magistrate, who tried in vain to drive him from his steadfastness. Finding he could do nothing with him, he sent him to that notorious sinner, Bonner, the popish bishop of London. This man, who was as crafty as he was cruel, spoke to him gently and persuasively, and then roughly, but to no purpose; the young confessor, sustained by grace, was not to be turned from the truth.
“Away with him again to the stocks!” cried the exasperated bishop, and to the stocks he was taken, and there, for two days and nights, he was kept without any other food than a piece of brown bread and a little water. But none of these things moved him, neither did he count his life dear unto himself, for he loved the Lord Jesus Christ, and he found that precious promise true: “My grace is sufficient for thee.”
After this the bishop sent William to prison in London, with strict orders to the jailer to put as many iron chains upon him as he could possibly bear. And there he lay, poor boy, confined in a dungeon for nine long months, yet still sustained by grace, and resolved to endure to the end. All these cruelties, remember, were exercised upon a mere youth by persons calling themselves ministers of Christ—priests of the Romish Church—merely because he loved the Bible; and, as Romanism is the same now, that it ever was, or even worse, seeing that the Pope has lately assumed the attribute of infallibility, which belongs to God alone, these men only lack the power to do as they did to poor young William Hunter.
After a time Bishop Bonner remembered the Bible-loving youth, and, hoping that his long imprisonment had, made him more willing to yield, sent for him to his palace. “If you recant,” said the cunning bishop, “I will give you forty pounds (a large sum in those days) and set you up in business.” The young martyr shook his head. “I will make you steward of my own house,” added the crafty bishop.
“But, my lord,” replied the lad, “if you cannot persuade my conscience by the Scripture, I cannot find it in my heart to turn from God for the love of the world, for I count all worldly things but loss in comparison with the love of Christ.”
Bonner’s gentle and persuasive tone was now changed to threats and abuse, and when William Hunter again entered his native town it was to be executed in the cruel manner commonly employed by the Romish Church against so-called heretics —namely, to be burnt alive! How much and-how deeply he now needed sustaining grace I need not tell you but he still found it true: “My grace is sufficient for thee, and my strength is made perfect in weakness.” As there was no prison in Brentwood, lie was confined in an inn, with constables to guard him, and there his poor mother was permitted to see him. His remark to her was, “For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ path, at infinite cost, procured for me a crown of joy. Are you not glad of that, mother?”
Thus he sought to comfort his sorrowing mother, and so well did he succeed that, before she left him, though her heart was breaking, she was able to kneel down and thank God for such a son, and pray Him to strengthen him to the end. The morning came at last on which William was to die, and the inhabitants of the little town came out to witness the sad spectacle. Surrounded by guards, executioners, priests, and justices, the boy martyr was led along. His poor father threw his arms around his neck, crying, “God be with thee, my son,” to which the youth cheerfully replied, “God be with thee, father; be of good comfort; I trust we soon shall meet where we shall rejoice together.” At last the melancholy procession came to the end of the town, where the stake and chain and pile of wood stood ready. As they bound the poor boy, a pardon was offered him if he would confess himself a Papist. But his answer was, “I will not recant, God willing;” and then, turning to the people, he asked them to pray for him. Fire was now set to the pile of wood, and the flames began to rise around him; but, instead of showing any terror, his chief concern at the moment seemed to be to save a book of the Psalms which he had till now held in his hand, and which he tossed through the smoke to his brother. Catching the book, his brother exclaimed, “William, think on the sufferings of Christ, and be not afraid;” to which the young martyr replied, “I am not afraid. Lord, Lord, receive my spirit.” The flames now fiercely and quickly wrapped around him, and in a few moments his sufferings were at an end forever.
As lately as twenty years ago an old elm tree still marked the spot (and may do so still) where the boy martyr suffered for the truth’s sake. His happy spirit has now been for some three hundred years with the Lord, and in “a little while” He who loved him and gave Himself for him shall come again, and for that poor body which was burned to ashes for His sake will give him a glorious body like unto His own, and a crown of glory that fadeth not away. Don’t you think the boy martyr will then rejoice that he was counted worthy to suffer for His name’s sake?
J. L. K.