“Behold, I Stand at the Door, and Knock.”
By Elmira O. Davis
O CHURCH of Christ! Thy Saviour agonized, and poured out his soul unto death, that he might redeem thee unto himself, a glorious church. What vails from thee the light and glory of the Saviour’s love? Why has thy light become so dim? Why art thy garments soiled? thy banners in the dust? I think I hear his voice float past on the chill, midnight air: “Your iniquities have separated between you and your God.” Thou art groping amid their shadows, and dost find no light. Thou art poor, and sick, and blind; is there no healing balm? no kind physician, that thy health may be restored? Yes, even Jesus, the light of life. He stands at the door, and knocks. Already he has stood till midnight dews are dripping from his locks. He longs to hold communion sweet with thee, and thus impart to thy poor soul a rich foretaste of the joys he has reserved for those he loves. He knocks and waits, then knocks again, and cries, How long? In vain he listens for a glad response from thee. To some he comes when daily cares are laid aside; at the calm twilight hour, when worldly friends are passing in and out to while away an hour in social chat, unnoticed and alone he stands; no heart is turned to him with warm and friendly welcome; he sadly turns him from the light, warm room, its music, mirth, and cheer, into the darkness, to the mountain top and midnight air. He comes again at morn with accents sweet, and he wakes thee from a night’s repose. He warns thee of the world and all its charms. Its great pretense of friendship deep and strong will prove so false to thee. Son, daughter, give me thine heart, and I will keep the trust secure until the last, great day. I have wept and prayed, I have bled and died for thee, and now I seek to win thee from all these, and lead thee to the home I have prepared for thee above. The siren’s song, so soft and sweet to a perverted ear, is often heard above the Saviour’s voice; her throngs press in, and gain an entrance to that inner temple’s shrine. He turns away, that meek, calm, patient Friend! In pity still he comes. At busy noon, amid the bustle and the whirl of life, above the sound of worldly din and strife, hear ye not that deep, clear note from this, thine injured Friend? Oh! let me in, he cries; I will still the tumult in thy breast; I will give thee joy and peace and rest. The stubborn heart replies, Nay, nay; he, broken-hearted, turns away. No rest has yet the Saviour found, save the mountain top and the cold, damp ground. I think I hear his voice abroad, above the multitude: “If any man will hear my voice and open the door, I will come in and sup with him.” He hastens to the court of kings and to the peasant’s humble cot; with master and with slave alike he pleads: “Come, learn of me, and I will teach you how to rule and to obey. Ye rich and poor, all, come, buy the pure gold tried in the fire, that ye may be rich in faith; buy robes made white in my all-cleansing blood.” O child of earth! where will thy Saviour go? What if he leave thee to the dreadful woe of lukewarm souls? With all thy boasted love and zeal for him, thou hast proved faithless to thy trust; in selfishness and pride, thy heart is closed against the Crucified. But Jesus will yet see of the travail of his soul and be satisfied. A faithful few will follow their Lord whithersoever he goeth. The time speeds on, when Zion’s light will shine. She will come forth fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners. Her children will be more than conquerors through him who hath loved them and hath redeemed them unto God by his own blood, out of every nation, tongue, and people. Then every heart will unite in the grand anthem that will arise, ascribing glory and honor, praise and thanksgiving, unto our God and the Lamb forever. But from some, dear reader, perhaps even now Jesus is turning hopelessly away. Not one short hour in all thy wasted years didst thou devote to entertain thy Lord. Remember, in the darkness of that coming night when earthly props will fail, trembling and shelterless thou wilt stand, and taste the bitterness of that awful storm that is soon to engulf the world. How wilt thou, in thy soul’s deep agony, then long to have thy slighted Friend twine his strong arms about thy shrinking form and bear thee to those realms of light! Alas! before the throne he will plead no more for thee. Thy days of grace and mercy will then be over. When, with the unnumbered company of his redeemed, he serves at the great marriage feast, he will not heed thy cry. Accept him now.