But what of the poor dying girl? Did she accept at once the shelter provided for her? No, not at once; and on the next day the visitor found the same look of anguish on her brow. Again she spoke of Christ, and again she repeated the simple words—
I will believe, I do believe,
That Jesus died for me;
That on the cross He shed His blood,
From sin to set me free.
Once more the sufferer followed them silently, and again they parted.
Early the following morning the servant of Christ was at the gate again, hardly daring to gaze at the windows, lest they should tell the tale that all was over; but it was not so, and once more she hastened to the bed of death. Anxiously enough she fixed her eyes upon the young face where Death was already setting his ashy seal; but as she looked on it she smiled, for no words could ever describe the gaze of deep and holy joy with which those eyes met hers.
“You are not afraid to die now?” she cried, rejoicingly.
Earnestly and solemnly the dying girl moved her head from side to side, while the fair face spoke, in a language all its own, of a peace “that passeth all understanding.”
Ah! it needed no second glance to see that that poor, frightened, guilty soul had found, in the living Door, the shelter that it needed. Just a few words of thanksgiving, just the unfolding of a promise or two, and those redeemed ones parted, to meet no more till the dead in Christ shall arise, “and they that are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air.” 1 Thess. 4 :17.
They parted, and fast the deep flood rose around the dying girl. Did she fear it? No, she was safe; from the shelter of her Saviour’s arms she could gaze unterrified at the waters that would never touch her. Death was her servant now; he could but bear her to the presence of a Father God. Was she in herself a bit less guilty? Not the least; but she had accepted her Saviour’s death instead of hers; she saw that it was enough to satisfy God’s judgment against sin; and so all fear was gone; nay, more than that, joy had taken its place. She could say,
“Thou art my hiding place; Thou shalt preserve me from trouble, Thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.”
Just at the very last the power of speech returned to her, and she called her parents and her young brothers to her side, and warned them to escape as she had done; then as the deep waves she no longer feared rolled in betwixt her and them, they heard her sing with her passing breath—
I will believe, I do believe,
That Jesus died for me;
That on the cross He shed His blood,
From sin to set me free.
That was a “song of deliverance,” was it not?
But did those she loved escape, too? Yes; more than a year afterwards, a working man called at the house where the young lady lived, to tell her that his wife —the poor girl’s mother—had gone home the same way; and as he spoke of her triumphant departure, he drew his rough hand over his eyes, and added, in a low tone, “It’s been a blessing to us all Miss, and me and the lads is quite different now.”
I hope you, my dear readers, will not wait till your death-bed to escape, because many are cut off suddenly and never have a death-bed.—Selected.
ML 01/07/1900