Children's Missionary Exercise by Estella Houser

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Tacoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Nov 29, 1906

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 83, No. 48.

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Children's Missionary Exercise

By Estella Houser

For Sabbath, December 29, 1906

Prepared by ESTELLA HOUSER

Suggestive Program

I. OPENING SONG: “Hasten On, Glad Day.” (“Christ in Song,” No. 448.)

II. PRAYER.

III. RESPONSIVE SCRIPTURE READING.

IV. SONG: “A Missionary Hymn.” (Music, “Hymns and Tunes,” No. 866.)

V. RECITATIONS:— “Go Preach My Gospel, Go.” “The Heathen Mother and Her Babe.” “Come Over and Help Us.”

VI. SONG: “Seeking the Lost.” (“Christ in Song,” No. 406.)

VII. AN IMAGINARY TRIP TO INDIA.

VIII. RECITATIONS:— “Appeal of Africa.” “Why Didn’t You Tell Us Sooner?”

IX. SONG, by the children: “Little Workers.” (Music, “Hymns and Tunes,” No. 775.)

X. RECITATION:— “What Missionary Pennies Will Do.”

XI. COLLECTION.

XII. CLOSING SONG: “To the Work.” (“Christ in Song,” No. 449.)

Responsive Scripture Reading

Superintendent.—Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth’s sake.

School.—Wherefore should the heathen say, Where is now their God?

Supt.—But our God is in the heavens: he hath done whatsoever he hath pleased.

School.—Their idols are silver and gold, the work of men’s hands. They have mouths, but they speak not: eyes have they, but they see not: they have ears, but they hear not: noses have they, but they smell not: they have hands, but they handle not: feet have they, but they walk not: neither speak they through their throat.

Supt.—They that make them are like unto them; so is every one that trusteth in them.

School.—O Israel, trust thou in the Lord: he is their help and their shield.

Supt.—He will bless them that fear the Lord both small and great. For there is no difference . . . for the same Lord over all is rich unto all that call upon him.

School.—For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.

Supt.—How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed?

School.—And how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard?

Supt.—And how shall they hear without a preacher?

School.—And how shall they preach except they be sent?

Supt.—The harvest truly is plenteous, but the laborers are few; pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth laborers into his harvest.

A Missionary Hymn

(Music, “Hymns and Tunes,” No. 866) Many the hearts who of error are weary, Longing for Him who is waiting to save. Many the lost ones in wilderness dreary, Many who, Christless, now haste to the grave. Bear to the lands that in bondage are lying Tidings of Jesus, the Saviour of all. Speed with the gospel, on love’s pinions flying; Haste, O ye reapers, the Master doth call. Go to all nations: no longer delaying; Go with his message of love and of light; Go, for the systems of error, decaying, Herald the passing of heathendom’s night. Harvest draws near. Hath the Master not told us? Haste, O ye reapers! the fields now are white. Fear not; his love and his power enfold us; Strong is the Christian in Jesus’ own might. —Ernest G. Wellesley-Wesley.

Go Preach My Gospel, Go!

THERE is a voice upon the wind, A voice that comes from far, A voice from where the distant groves And perfumed breezes are. ’Tis not the sound of triumph, nor The scream of heathen rage, But ’tis a cry for gospel light— The echo of the age.

The orb of night is going down, The crescent hastes to set; For where the Arab prophet ruled, The men of God have met. The Persian moolah seeks for light, The Tartar waits to know If Christ’s command hath been repealed: “Go preach my gospel, go!”

Along Sumatra’s tropic shore, And Java’s upas vale, The heathen strains his eye to watch The missionary sail: The idol gods that long have ruled Are burned in Borneo, And there the voice from heaven proclaims, “Go preach my gospel, go!”

The Karen, from his rocky hills, And natives of Japan, Unite their voices with the sound That comes from Hindustan. They call on us in words direct, Or in their rites of woe, “Obey, ye saints, your Lord’s command: ‘Go preach my gospel, go!’”

The voice of strong entreaty still The breeze from Burma brings. The call is echoed from Siam, And China’s ancient kings. The region of the simoon blast, Where Niger’s waters flow, Repeats to us our Lord’s command: “Go preach my gospel, go!”

From many a river’s templed bank, Where pagans bend the knee: From continental villages, And islands of the sea, Each ship that floats upon the wave, And all the winds that blow, Ring out to us the Lord’s command: “Go preach my gospel, go!”

—Selected.

The Heathen Mother and Her Babe

I SEE a heathen mother stand beneath the starry sky; I seem to see her bosom heave, and hear her bitter sigh. But as she stands there lone and sad, wrapped in the shades of night, There steals into her darkened soul a blessed ray of light. Not long ago she stood beside a river, deep and wide, Which bore a precious little form upon its rapid tide. O do not doubt she loved her babe, and found it hard to part, For in that dark, uncultured breast

there is a mother’s heart;

And often when maternal fears come surging o’er her soul, She seeks her gods of wood and stone, her burden there to roll. O poor neglected, thirsty one, I would that thou couldst know There is a home, a heaven above, where living waters flow; That thou mightst know His blessed name who died thy soul to save, And keeps for aye that little life once cast upon the wave. O where is he with faith and love and consecration meet, Who time and friends, and health and life, hath laid at Jesus’ feet, Who’ll brave the dangers of the deep, and face the burning sands, To tell the blessed gospel news in distant heathen lands? He surely will come forward now; to him the call is given, This “secret of the Lord is his,” and his reward is heaven. O may the inspiration come to many hearts to-day, Constraining every child of God most fervently to pray For bands of Christian workers in the vineyard, that will bring The kingdom and the glory of our blessed Lord and King! O see that heathen mother stand, her hands stretched toward the sea; Now who will say, “Lo, here am I; send me, O Lord, send me”? —Mrs. Martha C. Wiswell.

Come Over and Help Us

(To be spoken by five little girls in costume of country, or with sash over shoulder bearing name of country each represents.)

SPAIN, first I COME from the land where the light and the darkness, The good and the evil, are ever at strife; To plead for the famishing ones ere they perish, For you have the bread and the water of life. I fled, O my friends, from the cell of a convent, A place where the monk and the priest have control, Where the dark, secret Jesuit holds inquisition To crush out the light of the Lord from the soul. O, send to my people the gospel of Jesus, Let the words of the Master their fetters unbind! “Come over and help us,” for dark superstition Debauches the soul and bewilders the mind.

INDIA, second I come to you here from the land of the Veda, Where the bars of division are stronger than death, Where man is feared more than the beasts of the jungle, Where the ties of affection dissolve at a breath. O, rich in its gems is the home of my childhood!

Strange flowers spread its landscape, strange stars dot the sky, Where Nature is crowned as a priestess forever, In all our green vales, on our mountains so high. Yet send to our people the gospel of Jesus, In all our zenanas to teach of his love; O, tell those who dwell by the glorious Ganges, Of the river of life and the Eden above!

CHINA, third I come from the far-away land of the sunrise, Where Buddha is worshiped, and Christ is unknown, Where sin hath its root in the heart of the nation, And poisons all life, from the hut to the throne. O, dark is the fate of the wife and the mother, Where the lot of a woman is worse than a slave, Enshrouded in gloom and encircled in sorrow, Till love’s dearest gift to a girl is the grave! O, send to our people the gospel of Jesus, Let our priests and philosophers bow at his feet, Let his heralds come to us from over the waters, And quickly his offer of mercy repeat!

AFRICA, fourth I come from a land where darkness has thickly Brooded over our tribes like the night of the grave, Till the world, in its scorn, has given us only The brand of the serf and the lash of the slave. Your traders came to us across the wide waters, But O! ’twas for greed, ’twas for gold that they came. They filled all their ships with our sons and our daughters; Their civilization was only a name. O, send to our people the gospel of Jesus, That blesses the nations all over the earth! O, spread out his banner of mercy above us, Till the latest-born child of his kingdom has birth!

AMERICA, fifth Dear sisters, we give you this gospel of Jesus, Sent down from the Father above. Our hearts have grown glad in the light of his presence, While telling his story of love. O sisters, believe there is rest for the weary, There is hope for the sin-darkened soul, There is strength for the weak, there are gifts for the needy More precious than silver or gold.

He died to redeem us. Now, risen in glory, He has triumphed o’er death and the grave. Go home to your people, and tell the glad story That Jesus is waiting to save. —Heathen Woman’s Friend.

An Imaginary Visit to India

(Let this exercise be given by a class who are supposed to have recently returned from a trip among our missions in India. Have a map of the world. If none is at hand, make an outline map on a large sheet of paper or cloth. Mark the route of the travelers by a dark-red ribbon or cord.)

TEACHER

To-day India seems much nearer to us than it did fifty years ago. In the early days missionaries consumed months in reaching India, while to-day the journey may be made in less than a month. (Trace journey on map of world, with pointer.) And in India to-day we can travel long distances with much ease and comfort, on railroads. Still, it is often necessary to journey on foot, in bullock carts, or on horseback, in visiting the missions.

FIRST SPEAKER

“Impressions of a Traveler” India is only one half as large as the United States, but it is the home of three and a half times as many people. Most

of her people are very poor. The country is fertile, but the people are not thrifty. Many of them earn not more than five or six cents a day.

The three largest cities in India are Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras. Ninety out of a hundred people live in towns or villages. Only a few men and scarcely any women can read and write. The houses of these middle and lower classes are built of mud, and consist of a room or two, with prison-like windows set high, earthen floors, and no chimneys. A low stool, a poor cot or crude bedstead, and an old rug for visitors to sit upon, furnish such a hut. There are some earthen cooking vessels, water-jars, brass plates, and cups. Dusky children play around without much, if any, clothing on, and men and women wear scanty attire. Cows, calves, buffaloes, bullocks, and fowls make the home their abode, and are always on intimate terms of acquaintance with the family.

The village schoolmaster calls his pupils together under a large tree, or in some shed. A stick serves for a pencil or crayon, and a leaf on the ground for paper or blackboard. Some mischievous boy may be punished by hanging for five minutes with his head down from a tree, or two boys may have their heads knocked together several times.

How many American boys and girls do you think would be willing to exchange the comforts of their homes, and the privileges of church, schools, libraries, and cultured friends, for the opportunities that come to the average boy and girl of India?

SECOND SPEAKER

“In the Women’s Quarters” In India many of the homes, but not all, are built with special apartments for the women, very distinct from the part of the house where the men live. Can you imagine one or more rooms built expressly for your mother and sister, where they must always stay, never knowing the freedom of the home such as their husband or father enjoys? These apartments are called zenanas.

The zenanas often have the appearance of a prison, for the windows are very small and high, so that the women are unable to look out, and any one outside can not look in. The rooms are generally bare and unattractive, not unlike other parts of the homes. From the age of eight or nine years, the women of the higher and middle classes are doomed to a life of seclusion and ignorance in these gloomy zenanas.

The condition of women in India wrings sympathy from the heart of every visitor to that land. Listen to the story of Tara, one Hindu widow. Her name means “a star,” but not a single star seems to shed its light in Tara’s life:—

THIRD SPEAKER “Tara’s Story” (dressed in costume of Hindus)

How strange it seems to me to see so many happy little girls and young women everywhere I go in the United States. In India that would be called a strange sight. Over there most of the girls and women are never allowed to go upon the street or have the freedom of the house; but, if you could see them, most of them would look sad, because they have so little to make them happy. The little widows like me are the saddest girls in India. We are cursed and despised by everybody. Our lives are the most unnatural and cruel in the whole wide world.

When I was born, my father felt disgraced, and was angry because I was not a boy. He told his friends that “nothing” had been born. Before I was a year old, my parents had promised a man old enough to be my father that he might have me for his wife. When I was four years old, that man became my husband. How strange it must seem to you to hear a little girl like me say “my husband.” The beautiful clothes, the gold and silver jewelry, set with many brilliant stones; the horses decked in silver and gold tinsel, and the tinkling of little silver bells as the wedding procession moved through the streets, made me very happy. But I was only four years old!

Very soon I went to live with my husband’s family. That day I parted with my home, and became a woman. My husband’s mother said that I was married now, and must stay in the house, and help do the work for the family. It was hard, but nevertheless I had to work. Before I was ten years old, my husband died, and friends of his family said that I must have been very wicked in a former life; that I might have been

a snake, and that my sins probably had killed my husband.

They took away my pretty clothes and jewels. My beautiful dark hair was shaved off close to my head. I was given only a widow’s old, faded dress, like the one I am wearing. I became the drudge of the family. When I am at home, I have only one meal a day, and twice a month I fast. One day I was so hungry that I took a dry crust of bread, and ran away to eat it, but they brought me back, and burned me with a hot iron. They curse and beat me without the least provocation. I toil all day at the household work, bringing all the water, scouring the cooking dishes, cooking the meals, cleaning the floor, and doing the washing. I never go outside the front door, meet strangers, or enjoy the family feasts.

When I go back to India, the people who meet me will not be so kind as you are, but will say to me, “Widow! Curse you, stand aside!” It seems to me that I can’t endure it any longer. My heart and spirit are broken. Can’t you do something to make the lives of the little child-widows as happy and joyous as yours?

TEACHER

Perhaps we can better understand how many child-widows there are in India, when we learn that there are almost as many widows there as there are women in our own country. That means that if there were as many widows in the United States as there are in India, nearly every girl and woman you know would lead a life as full of sorrow as that which little Tara has told us about to-day.

Again, if the widows of India were standing with arms extended and hands clasping, as you see these girls on the platform are doing, the line would be long enough to reach around the world at the equator.

Many of the villages of India have never been visited by a missionary. Is it not plain to-day that we can do a great deal to help transform the lives of these millions of darkened people by giving money, prayers, and missionaries for India?—Arranged.

Appeal of Africa

(By boy showing map of Africa painted black; our own mission stations marked with white stars.)

DARK Africa appeals for aid, Her millions to reclaim; Millions yet bound in galling chains Of ignorance, crime, and shame. A few tried souls have hastened on, And reached a hand to save; Have left their homes and mother land, Dark perils there to brave; And some have lost their precious lives, And gained a martyr’s crown; Beneath the baobab and palm They laid their burdens down, And in the dense, dark forest, And by the lonely shore— O, naught of sin or sorrow Shall pain their spirits more! Now, who is there will say, “Send me, I’ll take the empty place; I’ll give my life, my strength, my all, To save poor Afric’s race”? —Selected.

“Why Didn’t You Tell Us Sooner?”

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”— The words come sad and low. “O ye who know the gospel truths, Why didn’t you let us know? The Saviour died for all the world, He died to save from woe; But we never heard the story— Why didn’t you let us know? Why did you let our fathers die, And into the silence go With no thought of Christ to comfort— Why didn’t you let us know? “O souls redeemed by Jesus, To think what your Lord hath done! He came to earth, and suffered, And died for every one. He expected you to tell it, As on your way you go; But you kept the message from us— Why didn’t you let us know? You may not be able to come yourself, But some in your stead can go; Will you not send us teachers— Will you not let us know?” —G. P. Turnbull.

Little Workers

(Motion Song by the Children! Music, “Hymns and Tunes,” No. 775.) WE are workers for the Master; Willingly to him we bring Hearts and hands, to do his service, While our lips his praises sing. Little workers, happy workers— Willing workers for our King. There are lands where heathen darkness Falls, without one cheering ray, Where they bow in idol worship To their gods of wood and clay. Little workers, happy workers— Send to them the light of day. There are sheep that far have wandered From the pastures green and fair, Out upon sin’s gloomy desert, Over rock and mountain bare. Little workers, happy workers— Lead them to the Shepherd’s care. Let us then be up and doing— Serving Jesus while we may, Sending light to souls in darkness, Seeking lost sheep gone astray. Little workers, happy workers— Be our motto, “Work and pray.” —Selected.

What Missionary Pennies Will Do

CHARLEY My papa gave me a penny My very own to be. O Johnny, say, what would you buy With it, if you were me?

JOHNNY I’ve got a penny, too, see here! And though it is quite small, ’Twill buy some candy, I am sure, Or else a top or ball.

CHARLEY O, how I wish I had a pile Of pennies, up so high! (measuring with his hand) What lots of playthings, pretty toys, And candy I would buy!

JOHNNY And I would buy a great live horse, And ride him all the day; I’m sure I never should be tired, Nor ever want to play.

CARRIE Now, boys, if you will listen, I will tell you something true. I read about some boys and girls About as big as you. They live across the ocean, Thousands of miles away. They never read the Bible, Nor ever learn to pray. They never go to Sabbath-school, To hear God’s Holy Word, But worship idols (made of stone Or wood), instead of God. They never heard of Jesus, So gentle and so mild, Who blessed the little children, And loves each little child. Our people send the Bible And missionaries there, But it takes a lot of money To support them, every year.

CHARLEY Here, Carrie, take my penny; I do not want the toys; I’d rather send the Bible To the little girls and boys.

JOHNNY And so would I; take mine along, And send it, Carrie, too; If I a pile of pennies had, I would give them all to you.

ALL TOGETHER We’re very little children; ’Tis little we can do; But we will send our pennies, And the dollars leave for you.

CARRIE (Turning to the audience) The heathen are perishing; onward they go, Fast as the clock ticks, downward to woe. You who have money, O will you not give, That the souls of the perishing heathen may live? The Lord can convert them without you, ’tis true— Or your perishing wealth—for all things he can do; But yet, this great honor is part of his plan— That he will accept the poor service of man.

ALL TOGETHER Give as you would if an angel Awaited your gift at the door; Give as you would if to-morrow Found you where waiting was o’er; Give as you would to the Master If you met his searching look; Give as you would of your substance If his hand your offering took. —Selected and Arranged.