A poor Hottentot in South Africa lived with a God-fearing man, who kept up family prayer daily. One day the latter read from Luke 18,
“Two men went up into the temple to pray.”
The poor savage, whose heart had been touched with the finger of God, looked up with deepest interest as these words fell from the reader’s lips, and whispered.
“Now I’ll learn how to pray.”
The man continued until he had reached the words,
“God, I thank Thee that I am not as other men,” when again the Hottentot whispered, and this was what he said,
“No, I’m not; I’m not; BUT I’M WORSE.” Again the man read,
“I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess.” And again there was a whisper,
“I don’t do that: I can’t pray like that, what shall I do?” said the distressed savage.
The reading was continued until they came to “the publican, standing afar off.”
“That’s where I am!” cried the poor African.
“Would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven,” read the other.
“No more can I,” said the Hottentot. “But smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.”
“That’s me; that’s my prayer!” cried the poor creature, aloud now, being too deeply moved to confine himself to whispers, and smiting on his dark breast, he prayed,
“God, be merciful to me a sinner,” like the poor publican had done, and he at once became a saved and a happy man.
The word was mixed with faith—how truly, how simple! He appreciated it, and thus it was he appropriated it, and he was saved by the blood of Christ. Dear reader, are you?
ML 02/14/1943