Have Any Been Omitted?

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Jun 17, 1913

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 40, No. 24.

Have Any Been Omitted?

ONE day in a large church the communion service was about to be concluded. As the last members served at the altar were about to retire, the minister asked, “Have any been omitted?” A woman kneeling at the board said that it seemed to her, as the minister asked this question, she could see women rise from the countries of the earth—from Persia, Africa, India, and China. They seemed to arise and cry out: “Yes, we have been omitted. No one has ever broken the bread of life to us.” The following poem was written upon this incident:

The feast was spread, the solemn words were spoken. Humbly my soul drew near to meet her Lord, To plead His sacrificial body broken, His blood for me outpoured.

Confessing all my manifold transgressions, Weeping to cast myself before His throne, Praying His Spirit to take full possession And seal me all His own.

On Him I laid each burden I was bearing: The anxious mind, of strength so oft bereft, The future dim, the children of my caring, All on His heart I left.

“How could I live, my Lord,” I cried, “without Thee? How for a single day this pathway trace, And feel no loving arms thrown round about me, No all-sustaining grace?

“O, show me how to thank Thee, praise Thee, love Thee, For these rich gifts bestowed on sinful me, The rainbow hope that spans the sky above me, The promised rest with Thee.”

As if indeed he spoke the answer, fitted Into my prayer, the pastor’s voice came up: “Let any rise if they have been omitted When passed the bread and cup.”

Sudden before my inward, open vision Millions of faces crowded up to view, Sad eyes that said: “For us is no provision. Give us your Saviour, too!”

Sorrowful women’s faces, hungry, yearning, Wild with despair, or dark with sin and dread, Worn with long weeping for the unreturning, Hopeless, uncomforted.

“Save us,” they cry. “Your cup of consolation Never to our outstretched hands is passed; We long for the Desire of every nation, And O, we die so fast!”

“Does He not love us too, this gracious Master? ’Tis from your hand alone we can receive The beauty of His grace. O, send it faster, That we may take and live!”

“Master,” I said, as from a dream awakening, “Is this the service Thou dost show to me? Dost Thou to me entrust Thy bread for breaking To those who cry to Thee?”

“Dear Heart of love, canst Thou forgive the blindness That let Thy child sit selfish and at ease By the full table of Thy loving-kindness And take no thought for these?” —“Woman’s Missionary Record.”