p. 11 | Blessed Are the Pure in Heart by C. L. S.

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jun 27, 1907

“Blessed Are the Pure in Heart”

By C. L. S.

C. L. S.

“He that loveth pureness of heart, for the grace of his lips the king shall be his friend.”

Can it be that when we are so willing to take up and pass on the latest titbit of scandal, we are loving pureness of heart?

I once knew a light-hearted, happy girl. Our paths led us into separate ways, and in the years we were apart, the saddest of misfortunes came into that young girl's life. In course of time our paths crossed again. I had not heard of her misfortune, and in our short stay together we had a very pleasant time. I noticed the sad face, and wondered, but thought perhaps it was due to the added years.

Later I met a mutual acquaintance, and when I chanced to mention our young friend's name, she asked, with lowered tones, “O, had you not heard?” and then she poured the whole sad story into my ears. “I am so sorry,” I said. “Poor child! I wish I could make her life less sad. The lines of suffering are written in her face.” I need never have known; I was not helped in any way by hearing her story. It did our young friend no good to have it repeated; and the good sister was in no way benefited by telling me.

A few months after, I was talking with the wife of an officer of the church. She took great pride in her own exemplary girlhood days, and held virtue in high esteem. In the course of our conversation she spoke of my young friend. “And by the way, had you heard?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply, with bated breath, she whispered the same sorrowful tale into my ears. I could think of no reason why she should have told me. I had not asked her for any information, and even if I had, no good could come from repeating the story.

Again another came to me, and tried to tell me the same story, but this time I led the conversation into other channels. My heart was full of sympathy for my poor unfortunate young sister. “O,” I thought, “will people never cease to repeat that story to me? How it must hurt my little friend! How it must keep her down!” A great wave of pity surged through my heart as I thought of the suffering she must undergo. Why should her sisters in the church keep repeating her story? Were they helping her by telling it? I knew from further association with her that she was living an upright life, was struggling to retrieve the past; and why, O why, should her sisters, whom Christ had commissioned to offer her courage and hope, keep calling up the past?

My sisters, let us pray,— “Teach me to feel another’s woe, To hide the fault I see. That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.”