IT was after years of attendance on my beloved father, lately gone to be with the Lord, ―the occupation gone which had so long taken up my time and thoughts; cast down, too, by the loss I had sustained, ― that I was induced by a relation to try change of air and scene. This was in 1859, a year memorable to many who passed from death unto life during the revival at that time.
We went together to a part of Ireland where Mr T., an earnest servant of the Lord, labored with great blessing. Hearing of the work that was going on, and understanding little of the nature of it, curiosity partly prompted us to attend the meetings. It was all new to me. Night after night souls cried for mercy. Often meetings were protracted till after midnight, as those who were anxious would not leave until they found rest in Christ. Suddenly they would rise from their knees, full of joy and peace, and go on their way. Blind as to spiritual things, I did not know that the Lord had spoken peace to the hearts of such; and asked myself, from time to time, why I had not the joy of those who said they had found the Lord, and lovingly entreated others to come to Him. There was now a great attraction to me in the meetings, and I began to ponder deeply the state of my soul,
My father was a Christian. I had been brought up to read my Bible, and was strict as to the outward observances of religion. Duty to those I loved was a real source of pleasure to me; all was fair in the eyes of indulgent relations and friends, but I never thought myself converted, and only hoped I should become a child of God at some future time. Thus I delayed for years, but now, as I listened to faithful words of warning from the lips of the Lord’s servants, I trembled, and thought I must decide.
One night the story was told of a lady who dreamed she was hanging over a precipice, and to prevent herself from falling had taken hold of a twig growing from the side of the cliff. One below said, “Let go the twig.” She was induced to do so, and, falling into the outstretched arms of her deliverer, was saved. Mr. T. said, “There may be some here holding on to a twig, some fancied righteousness of their own, too proud to be saved entirely by the work of another. Ah, let it all go.
Bring nothing in your hand. You cannot be saved in that way. The work was finished on the cross; you have but to look and live.” Mr. T. described my case. I looked on natural affections, and a wish to please, as likely to win the favor of God, forgetting that in all my ways there was no thought of Him. The Lord in mercy did not leave me thus. I returned home thinking of what I had heard.
As I lay down to rest that night, the last words that came to my mind were, “Let go the twig;” again, as if spoken in a louder voice, “Let go the twig.” I slept, and awoke in an hour or two, and again the same words seemed to ring in my ears, “Let go the twig.” Then the words darted into my mind, “Don’t be a fool; you are all right.”
Perplexed, and greatly distressed, I started up, and a gentle voice whispered, “Why not trust Me?” I said, “I cannot do anything, Lord; I cannot even trust Thee.” It was all very real. I had never before thought of the Lord as speaking to me. Now I knew He was near.
The next day (December 25th) was the Lord’s Day. I did not mention to any one the exercises of the past night, and was quite silent as I repaired with others to the place of meeting. I heard as for life or death, all seemed so solemn. The hymn and prayer over, Mr. T. read the words, “His name shall be called Wonderful.” Well knowing how many anxious souls looked for words of comfort, he told simply of the One who came to die, of the wonders of His love, and how it is His joy to save. As he thus spoke of the glory and beauty of that wondrous One, all else faded from my sight, I looked to Him, I trusted Him, and I was saved, and saved forever. There was no effort, no thought of giving up anything. He had taken captive the poor foolish heart, that would fain have clung to a twig of its own righteousness rather than trust Him.
Dear, anxious reader, will you not allow this tender, loving Saviour to have the joy of saving you?
M. F.