Peace rested on the world as I climbed one Sunday afternoon in summer to the ridge of the Downs. There I came upon an old shepherd tending his flock. He was resting with his dog at his side. We greeted one another; and finding him in the mood for a chat I dropped to the grass and we talked of the weather, the flock, the wonderful quietness of the Downs.
Just then there came from the Weald below the sound of a church bell. It was a musical note, mingling with the song of a skylark overhead.
“You don’t often get to church?” I queried.
“No, sir. We can’t leave the sheep.”
“You lose a good deal by not going, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, sir; but it’ll be all right in the end. You see they always put a piece of sheep’s wool in our hand when we are laid in the coffin, so that Master Peter will see that we are shepherds, and that is the reason why we couldn’t go to church; and he’ll let us in.”
I had heard that Sussex legend before.
“But,” I said, “suppose they forgot the wool!”
He looked at me anxiously for a moment: “I never thought of that.” His eyes were on the far horizon. He was a serious minded man, and evidently the thought troubled him.
“I think I can tell you something about that,” I said. His gaze was still on the distant scene, but I knew he was listening.
“It isn’t Peter who lets us into heaven and, after all, there isn’t really any gate. It is our sin that bars the way into heaven, and Jesus Christ died on the cross to take away our sin. When we trust in Him it is like the opening of a gate and we may pass through into the ‘glory that awaits us.’ Did you ever hear the hymn:...
`There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in’?”
He was thinking back, trying to remember. “Now I do seem to recall something like that. I learned it when I was a little chap in Sunday school.”
“It begins:
`There is a green hill far away
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all.’”
“Yes, yes, now I remember. It comes back to me,” he said meditatively: “Then the wool doesn’t matter?”
“No,” I replied, “it doesn’t. What really matters is whether you have believed in the `Lord... Who died to save us all.’”
“I’ve spent the best part of my life on these Downs minding the sheep. I’ve just kept with the sheep, and I’m always thinking things.”
He paused, his mind evidently running back into the past. “Yes, thinking of my young days. I was wild and reckless then. Something got hold of me and I nearly wrecked my life. I suffered for it too; and in my shame I gave up the town. It was too dangerous for me; and I came out to the farm and took the sheep. It’s kept me in the open air and away from temptation, but I’ve always got those memories. I can’t shake them off. It’s like a dark cloud in the sky.” “And they trouble you?” I ventured.
“Ay, that they do, sir. I thought I could forget; but I can’t. Now I’m getting old the cloud seems darker—dark and cold. That’s why I thought about the wool and getting in all right.”
I repeated the words, “All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.”
“Those are good words, sir,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied; “if we just trust Him and leave all our past in His hands, it need never trouble us again. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.”
“That’s better than the wool, sir; I’ll trust to that and then I’ll be sure to get in all right.”
We talked awhile; then I left him as he rose to gather his sheep and take them to the farm. The peace of God shone in his face, and doubtless he was thinking of the other Shepherd who is gathering His sheep home.