IV.
(Continued from Vol. XXVIII, p. 385.)
EQUAL to her desire to depart to the full enjoyment of her Saviour was that all mankind should partake of the love of Jesus. Familiar must it be still to the many who visited her, how she would strengthen herself upon her bed—with the ever-angelic smile upon her fair but death-like countenance, with holy fire in her large blue eyes, and with an utterance and understanding that astonished all—and press upon them the necessity of coming to Him in His own time and way—that is, now and through Christ. . . . “But remember,” she would say, among other things, “it will not do for you to believe that you are a lost sinner, and that Christ is able to save you. You must take Him, you must receive Him as your own Saviour, or He cannot save you, any more than bread can sustain your natural life, unless you take it, howsoever much you may feel your need of it, and believe that it can support you.”
I believe that few left her without a conviction, the fruits of which the day of judgment alone will show. When and where she observed any indifference, she would apply with renewed vigour. “Oh,” she would say, “how can I part with you as one without Christ, and, therefore, on the way to everlasting torments, and as one that may be saved if you but take Him! Oh! won’t you take Him? How can you live without Him, or die without Him? What would I be to-day if I had Him not? But I have Him—I have Him—and therefore, as you may see, I not only have no fear of death, but long to depart. Think, oh! think what will be your thought and state when you come to die, if you have no part in Christ. Come and look at Him, and I am sure you cannot but love Him, for He is altogether lovely.” The case of one woman in particular who, when pressed as above, said, I believe rather inadvertently, that it was too late for such a poor sinner as she was to come to Christ for salvation, affected her very much. This was the only thing for which I saw her shed tears during these memorable eighteen days. To another who said, when thus pressed, that faith is the gift of God, and that no one can believe until God works it in his soul, she replied, “Yes, I know that faith is the gift of God, wrought in the soul by the Spirit of God; but observe, He commands you to believe. Now, try and do so, just because He commands you, and in proportion as you try, so will He enable you to believe, not because you try it, but for His great Name’s sake. The Spirit works faith in the heart by assisting our endeavours to believe; so if you don’t try to take Him, or, in other words, to believe, you have no grounds to hope that you shall ever believe, any more than that the man could have his withered hand restored, if he had not, according to the ability given him, tried to raise it up in obedience to the Divine command. Oh, then, come to Him, and at His own command ‘ask,’ and cleave to Him in earnest prayer with His own promise, ‘and it shall be given you,’ and you shall not come to Him in vain.”
For the young she was specially concerned. May the good Lord bless to such of them as visited her, her earnest and impressive exhortations. I cannot but remember the solemn emphasis with which she said to a young lassie—and a dear companion of her own (after addressing her, according to her strength, in the most pathetic manner, rising feebly upon her elbow, and fixing her eyes in silence upon her for some time), “Oh, Annie, Annie, how happy I would be to see you in heaven,” and then she gently lay down. . . .
As she was drawing nearer her end, her wearied and wearying soul was getting more and more restless in its suffering and fast-declining tenement. For this day (Friday), and until well on in the morning of Saturday, the 23rd, her sufferings were great; then, she having got a little easier, I, at her own expressed desire, retired to rest at eight o’clock. Exactly at ten I was called up, and on entering her bedroom, the sight that met my eyes is beyond the power of human language to describe. There she lay, with her head pretty high, her hands, already pale and cold in death, feebly uplifted, the last cold dew lying heavily on her pallid but angelic countenance, her fine full eyes, which she fixed upon me, beaming with triumphant joy, and, with the ever-hallowed smile, said, in a strong and confident voice, “Behold, the Bridegroom cometh; don’t you think He is now at hand?” On my answering slowly in the affirmative, she said, “Yes, and the bride hath made herself ready; yea, He hath given me all readiness.” In a while after that she said, “I know that now death’s pangs are on me, but I fear it not.” She asked me several times as to how soon I thought her Beloved would come for her. At one time she said, “He was three hours in death’s pangs Himself, and should He leave me the same time in them, I’ll get home at one, and oh! what a joyful hour!” Nevertheless, it was His sovereign pleasure to leave her in this state of suffering until ten o’clock of the following morning (Sabbath, the 24th), and during these twenty-four hours, her furnace was heated sevenfold that He might the more magnify the riches of His power and grace in her case. On one occasion, as she observed me much affected beside her, she asked me the reason why. I said it was not because of any apprehension I had as to her eternal state, but because of her distress in the body. She looked at me full in the face, and said, “I am in distress; I cannot say whether my pain or my weakness is greatest; and my weakness is such that I always feel as if I was coming out of a swoon; but,” she continued, laying her death-like hand upon her breast, “He gives me such joy that I would rather be for ever with Him as I am, than be in health and have all the world without Him.” In a while after this, she said, “He will not leave me long in this state. I think I hear His voice saying to me, ‘Come with me from Lebanon.’ Oh! how little I will think of this a million years hence!” About ten at night, she expressed a wish to see, for the last time, the little remnant of the family left. When they came to her bedside, she, in the midst of her great weakness and suffering, had to be raised a little, and supported upon the bed, and spoke with difficulty as follows:—”I have called you that I might see you once more, and exhort you for the last time to make sure of an interest in Jesus; take Him and you are sure of that—take Him, and you shall be happy in life and in death. I am now dying, and see how happy I am, just because I have Him. Oh! take Him, and we shall all yet meet in happiness, to part no more.” She then was laid down much exhausted, and, turning a loving eye towards the little sorrowing group, held out her cold hand to each of them, and bade them farewell, saying, in low accents, “I shall see you here no more. O Lord, bless and keep them!” I need not tell you that the whole scene was truly affecting; indeed, she was the most courageous of us all herself. Parting with her only sister, a child of six years of age, was very trying.
When it struck twelve o’clock, I said, “This is the beginning of the Sabbath.” “Yes,” said she, “and the beginning of an everlasting Sabbath to me.” From this time until her departure I could compare her appearance to nothing but to a heavenly spirit shut up in a body of clay, and struggling nobly for release. About nine o’clock her affectionate and dutiful aunt, whose attention to her was unremitting, gave her in a teaspoon a little wine mixed with as much water. . . . After this her breathing became very difficult. Seeing her lips moving, I listened close to her, and found her propping herself upon the promise, as follows:—”I will never—never—never—leave thee; I will never—never—never—forsake thee.” I could also afterwards follow her assaying, with difficulty, and in very broken accents, to repeat as follows:—
Soon shall this earthly frame, dissolved,
In death and ruins lie;
But better mansions wait the just,
Prepared above the sky.
An house eternal built by God,
Shall lodge the holy mind,
When once those prison walls have fallen
By which ’tis now confined.
Hence, burdened with a weight of clay,
We groan beneath the load,
Waiting the hour which sets us free,
And brings us home to God.
We know that when the soul uncloth’d
Shall from this body fly,
‘Twill animate a purer frame
With life that cannot die.
Such are—the—hopes—that—cheer—the
—just—
Here her speech faltered, and, though endeavouring to speak, I could only know by the heavenly glow of her eyes, and by the motion of her lips, that she was trying to say, “Happy—happy—happy!” a word she often used to express in answer to my questions as to her state of mind, when, through the intensity of her trouble, she could say no more. It was also, I know, in reference to a request I made during the morning, that she would let me know, as long as she could, as to how she felt in her soul. In this state she continued until ten o’clock, when her happy spirit was released to the full enjoyment of all that she so earnestly wished. She departed without a struggle, with the ever-hallowed smile on her lovely countenance, which brightened up in a manner remarked by all who saw her dead body.
(To be Continued.)