“Awake, Thou That Sleepest.”
By Dwight Lyman Moody
THERE was a little story going the rounds of the American press that made a great impression upon me as a father. A father took his little child out into the field on Sabbath, and lay down under a beautiful shady tree, it being a hot day. The little child ran about gathering wild flowers and blades of grass, and coming to its father, saying, “Pretty, pretty.” At last the father fell asleep, and while he was sleeping, the little child wandered away. When he awoke, his first thought was, “Where is my child?” He looked all around, but could not see him. He shouted at the top of his voice, and all he heard was the echo of his own voice. No response. Then going to a precipice, some distance, he looked down, and there upon the rocks and berries he saw the mangled form of his loved child. He rushed to the spot, took up the lifeless corpse, and hugged it to his bosom, and accused himself of being the murderer of his own child. While he was sleeping, the child had wandered over the precipice. I thought, as I heard that, what a picture of the church of God! How many fathers and mothers, how many Christian men, are sleeping now while their children wander over the terrible precipice—a thousand times worse than that precipice—right into the bottomless pit of hell. Father, where is your boy to-night? He may be just out here in some public-house; he may be reeling through the streets of London; he may be passing on down to a drunkard's grave. How many fathers and mothers are there in London—yes, praying Christians, too—whose children are wandering away while they are slumbering and sleeping? Is it not time that the church of God should wake up and come to the help of the Lord as one man, and strive to beat back the dark waves that roll through our streets bearing upon their bosom the noblest young men we have? O my God, wake up the church, and let us trim our lights and go forth and work for the kingdom of God!—Moody.