ABOUT forty years ago a missionary was traveling through Egypt laden with Arabic Bibles. Stopping at a place in Lower Egypt, called Medina Feyoum, where a curious stream flows, called Joseph's Canal, making an oasis in the desert, he tried to make it known to all in the neighborhood that he had beautiful and precious books to give away. The news spread, and many came— among them a Coptic priest.
The Copts are said to be the only true Egyptians now existing, being descended from the people among whom Moses was brought up. They no longer follow the ancient Egyptian forms of worship, but call themselves Christians, and say their forefathers received the truths of Christianity from the evangelist, St. Mark. However, they are in deep need of the clear light of Gospel truth, for they are brought up in great darkness and superstition.
This priest took the Arabic Bible home with him. I do not think he read it, but he kept it for some time. It is the custom of the country when any particular business is transacted—such as the buying and selling of a horse, or of land, or on any solemn occasion, such as a marriage—for the priest to be present with a Bible, by which the people take oaths. Accordingly, when this priest was summoned to a village not far off to assist at an important ceremony, he took his new possession with him.
Arabic Bibles are now printed in small, clear type, but at the time of which we write they were very bulky and ponderous volumes, bur times as large as one of our large English Bibles; so the priest, not caring for the book, and unwilling to burden himself on his homeward journey, left it behind.
“What shall we do with the priest's book?" said the master of the house to his wife.
“Let it stay here," she answered, pointing to a niche in the wall.
There the book lay, silent and unheeded, until one day the father of the family, suddenly remembering it, took it down, and began to turn over the dusty pages. He could read a little, and as he slowly turned over page after page its truth by the power of the Spirit of God, like a ray of light piercing the darkness, shone into his heart.
“These are precious words," said he; "surely these are precious words!”
More and more precious did the words become, and soon the reader, as he read, longed that others, too, should share the blessing of the words of grace and truth which had become so dear to his heart. Calling his family around him, he read to them—others heard, too—and by-and-bye, during the evenings, the father taught his children to read out of the great Book.
When the father died, happy in the faith of Christ, the Bible was still read by his children to all who came to hear; the blessed Spirit of God still spoke through His Word to heart and conscience; and so it came to pass that about twenty years ago some American missionaries found in this forgotten spot, a place which had the name of being a nest of thieves, robbers, and murderers, a happy little assembly of Christians!
“How did you learn the Gospel of Christ?" they asked, in astonishment. "Have you not been taught by some of our missionaries?”
“God Himself has taught us by His Word," they replied. And then they showed the missionary the forgotten Bible, which had brought them the message of the love of God in sending His own beloved Son into the world that they might live through Him, and of the wonderful life and death of the Son of God, Jehovah-Jesus, the Savior.