In the early days of Mr. Moody’s work in Chicago, a man who was a constant attendant at the Tabernacle often seemed on the verge of decision for Christ. One day when Mr. Moody urged him to accept Christ, he replied, “No, Mr. Moody, I cannot. My business partner is not a Christian and if I should accept Christ, he would ridicule me.” Mr. Moody urged him to trust God and to brave his partner’s ridicule but he could not muster courage to do it. Finally he became annoyed at Mr. Moody’s constant urging of him to accept Christ, and ceased attending at the Tabernacle. For some time he was lost sight of, but one day his wife came to Mr. Moody’s house and said, “Mr. Moody, my husband is very ill. There has been a consultation of physicians and they say he cannot possibly live. Won’t you come down and speak to him before he dies?” Mr. Moody hurried to the home. He found the man in a very approachable state of mind, and he presented Christ to him. The man listened and seemed to accept Christ. To everyone’s surprise his disease took a turn for the better. His convalescence was rapid and the next time Mr. Moody called, he found him sitting up outdoors in the sunshine. Mr. Moody said to him, “Now God has been so good to you and raised you up, of course as soon as you are able to come up to the Tabernacle, you will come and make a public confession of your acceptance of Christ.” “No, Mr. Moody,” he said, “I cannot do that for if I should do that my partner would ridicule me and I cannot stand his ridicule.” Mr. Moody urged him but he would not consent to make an open confession of his faith. Finally he said, “Mr. Moody, I am going to move to Michigan and I promise you when I get over there, I will make a public confession of Christ.” Mr. Moody told him that Jesus Christ could keep him in Chicago just as well as He could in Michigan, but the man would not listen. Mr. Moody went away that day with a heavy heart.
Just a week from that day, the man’s wife called at Mr. Moody’s house again. “Oh, Mr. Moody,” she said, “my husband has had a relapse. We have had another consultation of physicians and they say it is not possible for him to live. Won’t you come down and speak to him before he dies?” Mr. Moody said, “Did he send for me?” “No,” she replied, “he did not. That is the worst of it. He does not want to see you, but I cannot let him die this way. Won’t you come?” Mr. Moody accompanied the wife to the home, went into the room where the dying man lay. As he approached the bed, the dying man said, “Mr. Moody, I don’t want you to talk to me. It will do no good. I have had my chance and thrown it away.” Mr. Moody tried to show him how there was hope even in the last hour; how Jesus said, “Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out”; that even then he might put his trust in Jesus Christ and be saved, but the man said, “No, it is too late. I had my chance and I threw it away,” and he could not be moved. Mr. Moody said, “May I pray with you?” “No, I don’t want you to pray with me. It won’t do any good. Pray for my wife and children—they need your prayers, but don’t pray for me. It is too late, I have thrown away my chance.” Mr. Moody knelt down beside the dying man’s bed and tried to pray. He said to me when telling the story long afterward, “I could not pray, My prayers did not seem to go higher than my head. The heavens above me seemed like brass. When I got up the man said, ‘There, I told you it would do no good. It is too late. I have thrown away my chance.’” Mr. Moody went home with a heavy heart.
All that afternoon as the man sank lower and lower, he kept repeating just one passage of Scripture, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended and I am not saved.” Again and again those standing around his bed heard him repeating, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended and I am not saved.” Just as the sun was sinking behind the western prairies they heard him whispering in a low tone and they leaned over to listen and in a feeble whisper he said, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved,” and thus he went out into the darkness.