One morning in 1863 a steamer came up to the wharf at Norfolk, Virginia, with a very peculiar load of passengers. An exchange of sick and wounded prisoners had taken place between the Union and Confederate armies, and this steamer had brought several hundred Union soldiers, who had been held by the Confederates in prison hospitals.
Many of them were in a destitute and deplorable condition. Among them was a young man, under twenty, whose sufferings from wounds and sickness had greatly weakened him. He had been delicately reared in a refined Philadelphia home, and the life in prison barracks and long deprivation of clothing, while his body was covered with sores and vermin, had been intolerable to him.
He had been told that his brother, a wealthy Philadelphia merchant, would meet him at Norfolk. He told his comrades how elegant and immaculately clean everything was in his brother’s home, and asserted strongly they would not have him in their house. “I am so changed,” he said, “that William will not know me; and, if he did, he would not take me. I shall go and die in the hospital.” Then the poor boy would weep, as he looked at his filthy, ragged clothing, and thin and wasted form.
As the steamer touched the wharf a well-dressed, strong man sprang upon the deck. It was his brother William. He had been waiting hours for the steamer to arrive. He had a carriage furnished with pillows and blankets to carry his brother to the train. He had secured a furlough from Washington for his brother to go to his home, and, with a face full of eagerness, he passed around the deck, hunting for him.
Soon he was by his side. Sure enough, he did not know him. It was repulsive to him to look upon the wretched object before him. Sores upon the mouth and nose, face sunken, hair unkempt and fastened to running blotches upon his forehead, feet naked and cracked open with scurvy, clothing a mass of rags,- all these made him turn quickly away with a deep shudder.
The heart of the poor sick boy sank within him. “It is just as I expected,” he thought. “William doesn’t know me, and he was disgusted with me. How clean and nice he looks! He can never have me with him as I am now.” So he had not the courage to speak.
His brother passed along the second time, and failed to recognize him, and still he dared not speak. Once more the brother went carefully from soldier to soldier. He had almost come to the conclusion that his brother was not there, and feared that he had died on the passage. Making one more effort, however, he stood for the third time beside the one he was seeking. He looked at him attentively, but with no sign of recognition. “Poor fellow,” he said pityingly, and was turning away, when a faint cry arrested him.
“William, don’t you know me?” was uttered in faltering tones from the trembling lips of the poor sick fellow.
“My dear brother! Why didn’t you speak before?” was the reply of the grateful man, as he lifted the emaciated form in his arms, and carried him, rags, filth, sores and all, to the waiting carriage. His strength, his money, his house, all were at the disposal of his poor brother; and the possession of all these never had a higher value in his eyes than now that he could use them on his brother’s behalf.
Reader, perhaps the sense of your sinfulness, degradation, and moral sores of all kinds makes you feel towards the Lord Jesus as this poor soldier felt towards his brother. Being in God’s presence may reveal the contrast between you and Him, making you shrink in despair “From the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness in it; but wounds, and bruises, and putrifying sores” (Isaiah 1:66From the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness in it; but wounds, and bruises, and putrifying sores: they have not been closed, neither bound up, neither mollified with ointment. (Isaiah 1:6)).
Yet the Philadelphia merchant, glad as he was to take his brother in his arms and tenderly care for him, was not half so delighted at finding him, as the Saviour is delighted in finding one poor sinner who owns his need. All the fitness He requires is that you acknowledge your need of Him.
Christ receiveth sinful men,
Laden down with many a sin;
Purges from all guilt and stain,
Fit for Heaven to enter in.
Like the Father who welcomed his long lost profligate son in Luke 15, so God rejoices with all heavenly hospitality over the return of the vilest sinner. He provides perfect cleansing, and new attire, with rich feasting and unending heavenly joy.
The Saviour has done the suffering to put away sin, bearing its full penalty. Now that all things are ready, He bids you welcome to His arms, His heart and His eternal home.
Oh what a home! But such His love
That He must bring us there,
To fill that home, to be with Him,
And all His glory share.