DEEP in a forest of tropical South America, not far from the ruins of an Indian village, Alexander Humboldt was shown a rock outstanding, called The Mother's Rock.'
“In the days of the Spanish Conquest, the invaders had raided that village and carried away prisoners—among them a young Indian woman who left three little ones behind. They went by river, and traveled at night, that the captives might see no landmarks to help them to find their way back again. But the mother, lying fast bound at the bottom of the boat, watched the stars, and judged of the course by them. The way was long—three days' journey, I think, but I write from memory—and when the Spanish camp was reached, the young mother was still kept tightly bound. But the cry of her babes was in her ears—the call that is the same in every language. She bit through the cords—sped unseen, noiseless, with her bare feet and dusky form, out of the lamp in the darkness, and plunged into the forest where the eyes of the wild beasts glared. She heeded not; and the fierce creatures never touched her—as if they knew She swam rivers and waded morasses—fought her way through thorn and thicket, guided by the stars at night and the sun by day, with the wild fruits for food—till she reached her children, and dropped down, spent and bleeding, but in a rapture of joy, her dark babies in her arms, clinging to her.
“The Spaniards followed, and found her—tore her from her children, scourged her without mercy, and brought her back. Again she escaped and made her way across flood and forest, home to her babes: again they followed and brought her back, after such punishment as left her helpless. But no sooner had a little strength returned than once more she fled—dragged her spent limbs over the terrible distance, and sank at last, utterly exhausted, but by her children's side—the soft arms round her, the little lips and cheeks pressed to hers.
“The Spaniards were upon her quickly this time, for she had been long on the way. Hardly had she drawn one draft of utter bliss when they were there-seized her, and bound her to a rock. There they scourged and scourged her, and her blood streamed red over the rock, until she sank and died and up to near a hundred years ago it was still called after her, The Mother's Rock.'”
A story like this has lived for many, many years, and it well deserves to live. But there is a story that has lived for nigh two thousand years. It is called the Old, Old Story. It will live for eternity.
Reader, your heart has been touched as you read the story of the poor black mother's devotion to her offspring. Your heart is not human were it not so. But oh! has your heart ever been moved by the Story of Calvary?
The mother died for her offspring, the Savior died for His foes. We have reprinted the story of "The Mother's Rock" to lead you to think of The Savior’s Cross. Get your Bible and read the story of it—the most touching and transfiguring story of all time; a tale not to be compared with the most touching on earth. The most moving earthly story that man could pen only affords a contrast to the wonderful story of the ages.
Shall that story have no charm for your ears? If the Savior died for you, and you do not avail yourself of His love, then the most solemn of all questions will seek an answer one day from your despairing heart, "How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation?" There is none, positively none, and that is why we are anxious to get your ear as to the story of all stories.
“I have found out the reason they loved it so well
That old, old story is true.”
Yes, true, as myriads of poor, repentant sinners have found out. True, that God is a Savior-God. True, that the believer on the Lord Jesus Christ is saved eternally.
Will you trust the Lord? You, have everything to gain by doing so, and everything to lose by refusing.
A. J. P.