p. 10 | MOTHER, MOTHER

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 10, 1893

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 19, No. 35.

"MOTHER, MOTHER."

WHAT word in all the language is so sweet? What name among all on earth has so many tender and hallowed associations? From childhood to old age its sweetness is never lost. And the mother's love to the child—oh, it is all but infinite! However many years may pass, or though continents may intervene, and even though the child may become a prodigal, a mother's love is deathless. And what son or daughter, worthy of the name, does not reciprocate this maternal affection? Wander where we will, and come what may, especially in the dense shadows of loneliness, or in the dark hours of adversity, the lonely and chastened soul goes back to mother, especially if she be the Christian mother of a Christian son. Except the sacred tie that binds the loving and trusting soul to God, none remains so unbroken.

But what shall be said of that son so lost to filial affection that he does not honor, or love, or obey his mother? No words can express the perverseness of his nature; no uninspired man can foretell the doom which may await him. Solomon, by the Spirit, foreshadowed it when he wrote this prophecy: "The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it;" for the Mosaic penal code declares: "He that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death."

A touching incident is related by an American lady, writing from Cairo. Soon after a skirmish, in which several men were wounded, she visited the hospital and afterwards gave an account of it. Here is the substance of it, in her own words:—

"The three hours we could stay were full of work for heart and hand. One young soldier from a Highland regiment especially excited my interest. He had lost a limb and could not, the doctor said, live through the night. I stopped at his side to see whether there was anything that I could do for him. He lay with closed eyes, and, as his lips moved, I caught the words, 'Mother, mother.' I dipped my handkerchief in a basin of iced water and bathed his forehead, where the fever flush burned.

" 'Oh, that is good!' he said, opening his eyes. Seeing me bending over him, he caught my hand and kissed it. 'Thank you, lady,' he said; 'it minds me o' my mother.'

" 'Can I write to your mother?' I asked.

" 'No,' he said; 'the surgeon had promised to write; but could I sing to him?'

"I hesitated a moment, and looked around. The gleam on the yellow water of the Nile, as the western rays slanted down, caught my eye, and suggested the river the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God. I began to sing in a low voice the gospel hymn, 'Shall We Gather at the River?' Eager heads were raised around us to listen more intently, while base and tenor voices, weak and tremulous, came in on the chorus:—

" 'Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river; Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of God.'

"When the song was ended, I looked into the face of the boy (for he was not over twenty), and said, 'Shall you be there?'

" 'Yes, I'll be there, through what the Lord Jesus has done for me,' he answered, his blue eyes shining, while a 'light that never was on sea or land' irradiated his face.

"The tears gathered in my eyes as I thought of the mother in her far-off Scottish home, watching and waiting for tidings of her soldier boy who was breathing away his life in an Egyptian hospital.

" 'Come again, lady, come again,' I heard on all sides, as we left the barracks. I shall go; but I shall not find my Scottish laddie, for by to-morrow's reveille he will have passed away."—Our Banner.