We have heard of the old and the young, the youthful and the middle-aged, the noble and the peasant, each witnessing for the Lord, whose precious blood had bought them long before. I would now tell you of a very learned, clever nobleman, whose life was rudely taken from him when seventy years of age. His joyful words and happy dream may both be interesting to the youthful mind.
Wenceslaus, Baron of Budowa, was not only exceedingly accomplished, but he had also filled very high positions under more than one monarch. He was therefore a gentleman well worthy of much confidence and honor. His character is given by a writer in the most glowing terms, speaking of him as “the glory of his country,” a “bright shining star,” and “as rather the father than the lord of his dependents.”
The love and respect of many could not, however, save that precious life, but probably only the more marked Baron Budowa for death. He was arrested and put into prison and condemned to die. Yet when his liberty had been thus harshly taken from him, he was able joyfully to testify to the grace of God, in the happy freedom of his spirit and conduct.
Someone told him of a report that had gone forth, that he had died of grief. The baron’s answer to that was really jubilant. “Died of grief! I never experienced such happiness as now. See here!” he continued, as he drew attention to the Bible before him, “this is my paradise; never did it regale me with such store of delicious fruits as now. Here I daily stray, eating the manna of heaven, and drinking the water of life.”
A few days before sentence of death had been pronounced upon him, a remarkable dream made a great impression on his mind. He thought that he was walking in a green field where all around was fair and pleasant. His mind was, even in his dream, naturally much occupied with the probable issue of his imprisonment. Suddenly a bright messenger approached, placed in his hand a small book, and, having done so, quickly departed from his sight.
On opening the book thus strangely given, he found that its leaves were of pure snow-white silk, all blank, with the exception of one scripture written thereon. It was that most encouraging verse in Psalms 37 “Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass.”
While Wenceslaus’ thoughts were resting on those divine words, another being came towards him with a white dress in his hand. That was thrown over the dreamer, and with the action, he awoke.
Afterward, when ascending the scaffold to die, he referred to this significant act, by speaking of the divine righteousness which had been put upon him as being like that white robe in his dream.
Cruel, crafty priests did not cease their endeavors to disturb the condemned nobleman, even on his last day on earth. They came to his prison early in the morning, but all their efforts to shake the faith of that aged believer were unavailing. They began by praising his great learning, and professed to be desirous of doing his soul good. His answer to them was very discreet, yet also firm and decided: “Would you were as sure of your salvation as I am of mine, through the blood of the Lamb!”
“Good, my lord,” they further urged, “but do not presume too much; for doth not the scripture say, ‘No man knoweth whether he deserves grace or wrath’?”
“Where do you find that written? Here is the Bible, shew me the words,” said the truth-loving nobleman.
“If I be not deceived,” said one, “it is in the Epistle of Paul to Timothy.”
“You would teach me the way of salvation,” answered the baron, “thou who knowest thy Bible so ill! But that the believer may be sure of his salvation is proved by the words of the Apostle Paul: ‘I know whom I have believed,’ and also, ‘There is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.’”
“But Paul says this of himself, not of others,” once more ignorantly answered the Jesuit.
“Thou art mistaken,” boldly replied the baron, “for it continues: ‘Not to me only, but also to all who love his appearing.’ Depart, and leave me in peace.”
Thus courageously did the brave Baron Budowa confess the truth which he believed and loved. He was not ensnared by the fear of man, but counted his suffering position to be an honor and a privilege. When the moment came, therefore, for him to mount the scaffold, he did so without fear or dismay. He passed his hand over his flowing white beard, and said, “Behold! my gray hairs, what honor awaits you; this day you shall be crowned with martyrdom!”
It must have been a touching scene and a profitable one, to witness that venerable nobleman thus pass on with joy, amid surroundings in themselves most ignominious. To have lived seventy years in the world, and then go out of it like the worst criminal in the land, was what the natural heart would shrink from. But looking at the event in the light of God’s own unchanging love, the Baron Budowa could see that it was only stepping from that shameful scaffold to the paradise of God.
This aged believer, like many others, spent his last moments in prayer to God, ere going to His presence forever. He prayed for the church, for the land of his birth, for all who had done him wrong, and finally committed himself to Christ his Saviour. Then the executioner did his deadly part, as that aged head bent before his sword, and the faithful witness was freed from every link that had bound him to earth—his learning, his talents, his worth, his piety, all to live in the memory only, for that living voice had gone forever.
Such was the earthly side of things, but brighter far was the heavenly, with which alone he had now to do. Gone to be with God, to bask in eternal sunshine, to enjoy that immeasurable love, to drink of those never-failing streams of richest, purest bliss on high!
Was it not strange that men could look unmoved on such an unwonted sight in their daily life as a human being passing rejoicingly into eternity, amid these painful circumstances? One would think that it was enough to turn any stubborn heart to see what God could work in and for man! Such callousness, however, only reminds us that the natural heart is dead to everything that is of God. It is only when divine life is implanted in man, that he can look at things in the light that comes from above.
There have been cases in which some of the spectators, by the mercy of God, have been converted through witnessing such a moral triumph. But these were few, compared with the many who found an inhuman pleasure in the scene. Even a word of sympathy from an onlooker was enough to bring him speedily within the stern grasp of the law.
It is sorrowful to witness how man in power oppresses his fellow-man in weakness, simply because he finds in that his pleasure. The human heart does not understand how the wicked should thus triumph even for a short time. It is only as God’s thoughts on the matter are learned from the scriptures, by the Spirit, that the difficulty is made plain to the soul. The experience of David, the king of Israel, on this point, is given in Psalms 73, and has been instructive to many with like thoughts.
“When I thought to know this, it was too painful for me, until I went into the sanctuary of God; then understood I their end.” Then he also learned what he was in himself, in common with the rest of humanity: “So foolish was I, and ignorant, I was a beast before thee.”