Evening had closed in, and a young actress; who had earned the applause and admiration of many, was oh her way to the theater, where she would again win the plaudits of many, They were pleasant enough to receive, and yet why was she so weary-hearted tonight, and how was it that she felt so unsatisfied in spite of her success? She would be growing old soon, her voice would be going, and then how would this sort of friends stand to her? and—well, there was something further on still, there was death—and what should she do when that drew near? Friends would be of no use then, and there was the great score of sin to be settled.
Suddenly, as she went, there broke the clear ring of children’s voices singing; they were close by, and the words fell distinctly on her ear:
“Depth of mercy, can there, be
Mercy still reserved for ME?
Can my God His wrath forbear?
Me, the chief of sinners, spare?
“I have long withstood His grace,
Long provoked Him to His face;
Would not hearken to His calls,
Grieved Him by a thousand falls.
“There for me the Savior stands,
Shows His wounds, and spreads His hands;
God is love, I know and feel—
Jesus lives, and loves me still.”
It was a new, a strange message to the sin-sick soul, and the young actress listened eagerly to the words. When they were finished, she asked the children to repeat them, which they did over and over again; then, giving them a few cents, she passed on, with the lines ringing in her ears and heart. Could it be true? Was there really mercy reserved for a sinner such as she had been? Was the Savior showing His wounded hands, and the marks of the cruel cross, to His Father, to prove that He had taken her place of death, and borne the punishment that was due to her and was it true that the holy God was also a God of love, and that He was perfectly satisfied with, the place His Son had taken as her substitute, and could say in all truth:
She reached the theater, and prepared, in a dreamy way, to act her usual part. The building was crowded; but as she stepped upon the stage, her thoughts were far away from the audience around her, or from the enthusiasm that her appearance had aroused. She opened her lips, but it was not to give forth their accustomed utterance; almost unconsciously the words rang out:
“Depth of mercy, can there be
Mercy still reserved for ME?”
They were followed by an astonished silence—the actress turned and left the stage—left the theater, and hurried out into the darkened streets, never pausing until she had reached the house she had so lately quitted, and gained the solitude of her own room; there, with the door locked, she threw herself upon her knees, and found rest in that “depth of mercy” that had been reserved for her through Him who had died in her stead.
From the heart she confessed:
“I have long withstood His grace,
Long provoked Him to His face;
Would not hearken to His calls,
Grieved Him by a thousand falls.”
And from the heart, too, she believed—
“There for ME the Savior stands,
Shows His wounds, and spreads His hands;
God is love, I know and feel—
Jesus lives, and loves me still.”
O reader, do you know in your own self the blessedness of a sinner thus at the Savior’s feet?