Christ's Love Illustrated.
It is said that at a village called Ragenbach, in Germany, a great number of people were one day met for worship in a large upper room. There was only one door to the room, and that stood open. The village blacksmith, a pious, brave-hearted man, sat by the door. All at once, near the close of the meeting, a large dog came and stood in the doorway. Fears of hydrophobia had already spread a terror through the neighborhood, and now all eyes were turned intently on the dog. He was a great, ugly beast, with blood-shot eyes, and a red, drooling tongue hanging out of his mouth. Persons near the door shouted to the people, “Back, keep back; for the dog is mad.” Great confusion, and even shrieks of horror, followed. No one could pass out without being bitten, and it would be but a moment more before his burning fangs must settle into some one’s flesh—“Stand back, my friends,” cried the brave smith, “while I seize the dog and hold him, while you hurry out. Better one perish than many.” He seized the dog each side of his head and held him with an iron grasp. The dog, in spite of all, bit furiously on every side, and tore the arms and legs of the heroic man, while he still held on, and the terror-stricken people hastened out. When the last one had passed the threshold, with a giant’s effort he hurled the howling beast over a high seat, sprang through the door and fastened it, and the dog was soon shot. But what became of the blacksmith? He went home; the friends he had saved came and wept over him and dressed his wounds. He said, “Be quiet, my friends, as soon as I feel madness coming on I shall fasten myself to my anvil, where you must leave me till I die. And when I am dead, remember me with love. And now pray that I may not suffer long. I know I shall become mad; but I will take care that no harm comes to you through me.” A few hours later he went to his shop. He riveted one end of a chain to his anvil and fastened the other end in like manner around his body. His madness came on him. Hundreds gathered to administer to his wants, by day and by night. In nine days he died—died heroically for his friends; but Christ died for his enemies. The climax of human love is reached in dying for a friend. And when, during the world’s history of the past six thousand years, some heroic husband has actually died for his wife, or some devoted wife has sacrificed her life for the love she has borne for her husband; or some Damon takes the place of his friend Pythias; and Pythias by the appointed time, through floods and untold impediments, rushes back to take the place of his friend who soon must die; they, every one, become historic characters, and their names are a watchword for heroism throughout the ages. “Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friend.” “But God commendeth his love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.” The stories that have come down to us of the triumphs of human love, and the achievements of human affection, bear no comparison to the love of Christ. Profane history bears no record of any man dying for his enemies. But the deepest love of Christ was not displayed for his lovers and friends, but for his adversaries and enemies. And who can repel this love? Who can fail to respect this love? Who can be so hard of heart as to reject and spurn this blessed Christ? What Christian can let these passing seasons of prayer for sinners and the backslidden go without making an effort to show by his works an appreciation of the love of Christ? What minister, as he approaches the end of his year of toil, but should make one last, earnest effort to get souls to the arms of the loving Christ? Can we be faithful, and fail in this? Let us answer love with love.—Am. Wesleyan.