"The Flower Fadeth"

From: Good News for Young and Old: Volume 9 (1867)

(For Young and Old.)

How many little green-grown mounds and small stone monuments dot our old churchyards and cemeteries how many a sorrowful remembrance lingers round them! In how many aching hearts the echo of a sweet voice now hushed in death is heard, there where no other ear can hear it, and the vision of a form so loved and loveable is seen where no other eye can see it!

There, if anywhere, the opened eat may hear the solemn words,

“The grass withereth, the flower fadeth,”

But who shall tell how many a tale of love divine and sovereign grace for parents those little graves shut in from mortal eyes and human ken, until that day when all shall be told out to swell the torrent of eternal praise

“To him who loved us, gave himself,

And died to do us good.”

Yes. There is a tale of grace attached to many a little tomb. As the Irish proverb beautifully expresses it, “Every cloud has a silver lining.” Broken hearts and shattered hopes may have fallen with the “earth to earth, and dust to dust “that rattled on the little bier, but the longing eyes turned heavenward vainly looking for the lost one have caught a view of him who said, “Come unto me all ye that... are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,” and one look was life. Or where faith in him was already the blessed portion of the sorrowing parents, their loss has proved their gain, and drawn them closer to his heart of sympathy and love. And in any and every case a little lamb is folded in eternal safety, secure forever from the sins and sorrows, snares and storms of “this present evil world”— happy thought to those who know its abounding iniquity!

In St. Katherine’s churchyard, Northampton, stands a little stone monument on the top of which is sculptured horizontally, a light cross (representing probably, the pole on which Moses raised the brazen serpent), encircled by a scroll in bold relief, inscribed by those most precious words, “Peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Around the base of the tomb is carved the name and age and day of decease of her in whose dear memory it is raised, and beneath it sleeps the little form of one of home’s faded flowers, one of the early folded lambs of the flock, waiting through the “little while” for that blissful moment when the trumpet shall sound and the dead in Christ be raised, and we, changed and caught up together with them in the clouds, shall meet the Lord in the air, and so be forever with him and them in eternal light and joy.

Liza Amatola W―was born on the 8th of February, 1856, at Fort Cox, a military post in the heart of the Amatola mountains, in British Kaffraria, Cape Colony. Her father’s brother officers were wont to call her “the Little Amatola,” and so that name was given her in memory of them and of the place where she was born. At four years of age, her father having gone on military duty to China, she was brought by her mamma to England, a healthy, happy little one, enjoying life as children only can, the one little joyous companion of her much-loved mother, making sunlight for her by sea and land through all the long and weary way from the wild mountains of Kaffraria to her English home. But within two short years, a sad, sad change had come over the life of dear little Liza, and the little flower from the far mountains of Amatola faded. Owing, as was supposed, to a fall in London, symptoms of that hopeless complaint, spinal disease, made their appearance, and poor Liza’s joyous days were gone.

Before two years had again passed away she was laid down to rise no more, compelled by the nature of her disorder to keep a recumbent position evermore until she died! Who shall measure the weariness of such an affliction to a child! One has often looked upon a little one running hither and thither about a house, and wondered how many miles it travels thus in a single day. But Liza was never more to know on earth the springy step, the bounding leap, the joyous race of childhood.! Intelligent beyond her years, surrounded from her cradle by “the pomp and circumstance of war,” and accustomed from her earliest days, whether at Fort Cox or Aldershot, to witness the prompt and rapid evolutions of regiments, and to hear the quick, sharp word of command given and instantly obeyed, — Liza, though so young, was naturally imperious and quick in word and deed. To one so constituted, the affliction was far heavier than to a child of opposite disposition, and if in the earlier part of her illness she sometimes displayed impatience, the little sufferer might well be excused, although after grace had touched her heart, she would not excuse herself. Time passed wearily away, and her sufferings increased. Often was she unable from pain even to sleep at night, and it became increasingly evident that there was no hope.

Her medical attendant having, in answer to a question anxiously put, declared she could not live, her sorrowing mother, herself a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, felt it was high time to speak closely and solemnly to her about her eternal future. She was now between ten and eleven years of age, and old enough, and sufficiently intelligent to understand her position fully. But it must have been a hard, hard trial to a mother’s heart to have to go to her child’s bedside, and, taking her little hand in hers, say, “Liza, dear, the doctor says that you must die!”

Poor little Liza! well might she weep, for life is sweet and hope is strong in the breast of a child, even though suffering as she suffered, and the thought of death most terrible. But when the first fresh anguish had passed away, she listened calmly to the precious truth of everlasting salvation through the blood of Christ alone, and as the tearful pleadings of her mother’s voice fell upon her ear, the Lord graciously owned the word. She felt she was a sinner. One by one the sins and offenses of her little life rose up before her, and were confessed to her mamma. As conviction deepened she became most wretched, earnestly asking whether she could be forgiven, and entreating with tears that her dear mother, so loved and trusted, would pray for her, — a request which it is hardly needful to say was granted, — how earnestly and bow often a Christian mother’s heart yearning over her dying child alone can understand. By day and night those pleadings went up to a throne of grace and were answered. A text of Scripture hung upon the wall — “THE BLOOD OF JESUS CHRIST, GOD’S SON, CLEANSETH ITS FROM ALL SIN.” To it the dying child was pointed, the Spirit of grace applied the word in power, and little Liza’s fears and dread of death all fled before the blessed light which broke in upon her soul. On going into her room shortly afterward, the glad words fell upon her mother’s ear, “Oh, I feel so peaceful and happy now! The load is all gone; I know and feel that my sins are all forgiven.”

“She gazed, and marked a wondrous change in that pure,

pallid face,

For peace on lips, and cheek, and brow had set a heavenly

trace;

And when the dear eye met her own no shadow lingered

there,

And her low, sweet voice had lost its tone of anxious fear

and care.”

And from that hour she had full assurance of entire forgiveness and everlasting life. Nor was that all. From that hour, too, an entire change was seen in little Liza. It was in allusion to this that she once said to her nurse, “I can no longer order you about as I used to do;” and then added, in a tone of entreaty instead of command, as formerly, “Do, like a good girl, do this for me.” So patient and so submissive, too, was she, that when on one occasion her intense sufferings were pityingly referred to, she said, “If my legs had not drawn up, I should not have gone to heaven! “Who shall tell the anguish that had drawn her little limbs into such a position — nearly to her chin or describe the submission thus expressed by a suffering child of not yet eleven years of age! What a lesson to older believers, and what comfort to the heart of her who was her daily teacher!

And now another sorrow came. Her dear mamma was laid aside herself, and compelled to keep her bed. But little Liza could not part from her while life remained; and every day she would be carried to her mother’s room and laid beside her on the bed to listen to her teachings, to learn little hymns, and to mingle her prayers with hers. Instead of the fear of death, she now desired “to depart and be with Christ.” The doctor having once said she “might live a month longer,” she exclaimed., “How cruel of him!” thinking a month far too long to stay, but on hearing another medical man shortly after say that he did not think she would live a week, she turned to her mamma, and smiling, said, “O mammy, only a week!” A Christian friend who visited her remarked how sorry she was to see her so changed. To this dear Liza, looking up with a lovely smile, exclaimed, “Oh it will not be for long. I am soon going home!”

Desiring to ascertain her condition, this lady inquired the ground of her confidence, to which Liza, pointing to the text of Scripture which hung upon the wall, as already stated, answered with an emphatic “THAT!”

“But,” said her friend, “all do not believe that. I know a gentleman who thinks that he can go to heaven by his own good works.”

The child instantly replied, “I wonder he is not afraid! I could not close my eyes nor take a step in the dark until I knew that I was safe and felt my sins were all forgiven!”

It would be well, perhaps, could the gentleman referred to see and consider this answer of a child of ten to his condition, whose sins, as compared with hers, are probably as a sea to a single raindrop.

Her dear mother’s daily teaching was greatly blessed to her, and her growth in grace was marked and rapid. One indication of this was in her choice of hymns.

Her first favorite was —

“Rock of ages cleft for me.”

but shortly afterwards it was —

“O how he loves!”

and then —

“O for a closer walk with God.”

On one occasion she remarked, “Mamma, I do try to be patient, because it will be doing SOMETHING for Jesus.” At another, when near the close of her little life on earth, having been enabled to obtain a few hours sleep under the influence of morphia (for her pain was such that sleep without it was impossible), she exclaimed, “Let us thank God forgiving me such ease. Read and pray.” On being asked what chapter she wished for, she turned to the Christian friend already mentioned, and replied, “That chapter you were speaking of, ‘We glory in tribulations also.’” Surely this was growth in a child so young, and in such terrible suffering. And when the reading was over, she clasped her little hands, and exclaimed, “PEACE! PEACE with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” In further conversation, the “free gift” having been mentioned, she remarked, “That was Jesus Christ, was it not? O how kind of God! I know I am safe. I cannot understand how you explain it as a debt; all I know is that I was very wicked, and felt very guilty, Now the burden of my sins is gone, and I feel light and at perfect peace with God. I do not know what heaven is like; but JESUS IS THERE, and I long to be with HIM.” Truly we may well exclaim, “Out of the mouths of babes and suckling’s thou hast perfected praise.” Jesus was there, and that was enough for her. A few days before her death she desired to partake of the Lord’s supper, and when some difficulty was raised on the score of her being so young, she thus expressed herself — “All believers have a RIGHT to partake of it. I feel that my sins are forgiven. I love Jesus and want to love him more, and I want to go and be with him forever.” Dear little lamb of Christ! Well would it be did all believers know and value their privileges as little Liza knew and valued them, by the blessing of the Lord on the teaching of her mother.

But now her hours were numbered, and the desire of her young heart was about to be accomplished. Two days before her death, at her own request, that hymn was sung, beginning —

“Now the dreary night is done.”

And the last she asked her dear mamma to sing was — “Rest for the weary.”

On Thursday afternoon, the 24th of January, 1867, she said to her mother, “Mammy, I will die tonight!” and so it proved. Later in the evening she sent, by her dear father, her last “Good-night” to her whom she loved beyond all on earth, and before mid-day of Friday, the 25th she had entered into rest!

“The little hand fell powerless; the spirit fled to dwell, —

Not in the cold damp gloomy grave it once had dreaded so,

But in the land whose dwellers death nor pain nor sorrow know.”

Her dying testimony and the sorrow of her loss were not in vain. They were made an everlasting blessing to one very near and dear to her; and thus another soul was saved, and the monument which covers her remains became not alone a monument to her memory, but also to the praise of the glory of his grace who wounded but to heal forever!

“And holy were the drops that fell on little Liza’s grave

Of chastened grief and thankfulness to him who died to save.”

For the reader, whether young or old, whether a believer or an unbeliever, there is surely more than one solemn lesson to be gathered from Liza’s little memoir. If unconcerned about your soul, and careless as to Christ, it utterly condemns you! She was but a child, yet “could not close her eyes nor take a step in the dark till she knew that she was safe, and felt her sins forgiven.” But perhaps you are anxious about your salvation, and earnestly desirous of forgiveness? See her little hand pointing to the wall, and hear her emphatic “THAT,” directing you where God declares “The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth from all sin.” Go in spirit and look upon her tomb, and there, surrounded by the silent dead, those precious words meet your eye engraved in stone, “Peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” O let them reach your heart, and be engraven there! receive them as God’s own words, and then, like little Liza, you may exclaim with joy, “PEACE — peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Or are you a believer bowed down with sorrow? A child’s voice whispers, “Try to be patient, because it will be doing something for Jesus.” Little Liza on the rack could “glory in tribulations,” triumphant in the happy thought, “Oh it will not be for long! I am soon going home.” And thither she is gone!

“Oh, she’s reached the sunny shore,

Over there!

She will never suffer more,

All her pain and grief is o’er,

Over there!

Oh, the streets are shining gold,

Over there!

And the glory is untold,

‘Tis our Shepherd’s peaceful fold,

Over there!

Oh, she feels no chilling blast,

Over there!