I sat down in this great church. I was thinking more of other Sabbath
mornings at home, with my wife and baby, than anything else. A hymn
was announced. I stood up mechanically, but there was no song in my
throat. There was a great lump of loneliness only. But suddenly I
listened to the words they were singing. Had they selected that hymn
just for me? It seemed so. It so answered the loneliness in my heart
with comfort and quiet. That great congregation was singing:
"Peace, perfect peace;
With loved ones far away;
In Jesus' keeping, we are safe; and they."
A great sense of peace settled over my heart, and I have quoted that
old hymn all over France to the boys, and they have been comforted.
Many a boy has asked me to write him a copy of that verse to stick in
his note-book. It seemed to give a sense of comfort to the lads, for
their loved ones, too, were "far away," and since I have come home I
find that this, too, comes as a great comfort hymn to those who are
here lonely for their boys "over there."
And who shall forget the silhouette of approaching the shores of France
by night as they have sailed down along the coast, cautiously and
carefully, to find the opening of the submarine nets? Who shall forget
the sense of exhilaration that the news that land was near brought?
Who shall forget the crowding to the railings by all on board to scan
anxiously through the night for the first sight of land? Then who
shall forget seeing that first light from shore flash out through the
darkness of night? Who shall forget the red and green and white lights
that began to twinkle, and gleam, and flash, and signal, and call? How
beautiful those lights looked after the long, dangerous, eventful, and
dark voyage, without a single light showing on the ship! And who shall
forget the man along the railing who said, "I never knew before the
meaning of that old song, 'The Lights Along the Shore'"? And then, who
can forget the fact that suddenly somebody started to sing that old
hymn, "The Lights Along the Shore," and of how it swept along the lower
decks, and then to the upper decks, until a whole ship-load of people
was singing it? And then who shall forget how somebody else started
"Let the Lower Lights Be Burning"? Can such scenes ever be obliterated
from one's memory? No, not forever.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25