Poor dear J—! He was a tender, fair-haired child, marked as one on whom death would soon prey, as signs of consumption showed themselves in very early years. His fond mother's heart yearned over him, and an anxious father's eye often watched him as he sat by his side after his return from sea, for his father was fisherman. It was thought this summer that a cruise with his father would perhaps brace him up a little, if not finally restore health, and so his mother took a fond farewell, and he left his home for what was to be his first and last trip to sea.
For a time all went well, when, one day, the cry came, "J—is overboard!" The poor father sprang on deck to see his dear child struggling with the waves some distance astern. Giving orders to put the vessel about, he sprang into the sea, and with some difficulty succeeded in reaching his child, who had already sunk and risen several times. The moment he touched him the boy seized his father with convulsive grasp, and clung so closely to him as to completely prevent him from swimming, and after a few struggles both went down, it was feared never to rise again. But again they came to the surface, with death staring both in the face, and now the strong feeling of self-preservation became paramount for the moment, and in a fit of desperation the father, by a last violent effort, flung off his child to perish in the wild, deep sea. Thus flung off, dear J—sank to rise no more until called forth by the voice of the Archangel and the trump of God. The parent, now free, was enabled to keep afloat until assistance, arrived, and he was hauled on board all but lifeless.
I will not attempt, dear reader, to pen the painful reflections that passed through the bereaved father's mind. His action bore fruits which few could calmly calculate at such a moment, and I will not attempt to decide as to whether the parent did right or not. Some would doubtless have perished sooner than have given up the child, but then, there were the other dear ones at home, and a fond wife and mother besides; and, perhaps, he did well, even though he had little time to consider, and so dear J—was sacrificed and the father saved.
But I would ask you, does not this story suggest something to your mind? It is a short, sad tale, told by a poor fisher boy, who had just come ashore at G—, with the sad news for the mother and little brothers and sisters; it was not gospel or glad tidings he brought, so he did well to look sad. But, dear reader, surely it has suggested to you Him who, in all the holy calm and self-possession of One who was equal to the conflict, and who knew full well the fearful cost of coming to our rescue, yet came in the true nobility of His holy love and affection for us, and faltered not, even though at the foot of the cross in spirit, and anticipating the fearful agony of the coming three hours of darkness, in agonies and blood, said, "Father, if it be possible, let, this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not my will but thine be done," but was never more subject than at that hour to His Father's will.
In the volume of the Book, in the counsels of eternity, it was written of Him, "Lo, I come to do thy will, O God," and now the hour had come what should He say, "Father, save me from this hour"? no; "Father, glorify thy name." This was His whole soul's desire, let it cost Him what it would. And so the hour drew on, and offering Himself by the eternal Spirit without spot to God, soon He was made sin for us, and bare our sins in His own body on the tree; soon they were wrapped as weeds about His precious head, soon he sank in deep waters where there was no standing. Refused by earth, denied heaven, and forsaken of God at that hour, the fearful judgment was poured out on that precious Lamb of God, who, to save Himself, CAST US NOT AWAY, but took our place as One mighty to save, and for us poured out His soul unto death.
God in His mercy has veiled that scene; no human eye could pierce that cloud which wrapped the Lord in darkness, when God and His Christ, the Lamb, alone in redemption as in creation, wrought the mighty work that should form the true basis of peace, and enable a holy God to come out in the fullness of His love, and, in righteousness, bless rebel man, according to the riches of His grace. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" is the bitter cry which reaches us in this distant day from amidst that awful scene; and to many a skeptic now, as then, is the subject of cold comment as they pass on.
Is it so with you, dear reader, or have you, learning the emptiness and increasing uncertainty of everything here under the sun, pillowed your head, by faith, upon that bosom, which, in answer to the Roman spear, gave forth the water to cleanse and the blood to atone? Myriads, through grace, have done so, and he who now addresses you is among the number, whose earnest prayer is that, as you read, the still, small voice of grace may whisper, "Come!" "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." God is satisfied, every claim has been met on your behalf, if you will but cast out the unbelief of your heart, and set to your seal that God is true, who has recorded for our comfort and blessing, "It is finished." G. C. M.