One comes and asks why we
sit there nodding so moodily. Ah, they do not see what we see.
"A moment's time, a narrow space,
Divides me from that heavenly place,
Or shuts me up in hell."
So says Wesley's hymn, which we sing evening by evening. What matter
sunshine and walls, men and sheep?
"The things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen
are eternal." They are real.
The Bible we bear always in our breast; its pages are our food; we learn to
repeat it; we weep much, for in sunshine and in shade, in the early morning
or the late evening, in the field or in the house, the devil walks with us.
He comes to a real person, copper-coloured face, head a little on one side,
forehead knit, asking questions. Believe me, it were better to be followed
by three deadly diseases than by him. He is never silenced--without mercy.
Though the drops of blood stand out on your heart he will put his question.
Softly he comes up (we are only a wee bit child); "Is it good of God to
make hell? Was it kind of Him to let no one be forgiven unless Jesus
Christ died?"
Then he goes off, and leaves us writhing. Presently he comes back.
"Do you love Him?"--waits a little. "Do you love Him? You will be lost if
you don't."
We say we try to.
"But do you?" Then he goes off.
It is nothing to him if we go quite mad with fear at our own wickedness.
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