PRAYER is the communion of spirit with spirit—the intercessions of a weaker with a higher power for aid, for strength, for deliverance from evil. It is the connecting link between earth and heaven. It lifts the vail and exposes to view the things of eternity. It is a divine command, too, lest through a sense of unworthiness, the guilty sinner should despair. When the soul is weary and forsaken, here is a medium through which help may be obtained; for with the command is coupled a promise of infinite value—a promise of being heard and answered. There is one restriction; we must leave behind things corporeal, and approach God only “in spirit and in truth.”
The sordid things of earth, however esteemed, can have no place where spirits meet, while the gates of joy are opened wide to the humble, contrite soul. There may he bask in the smiles of God’s approval, forgetting the trifling annoyances that depraved human nature throws about him. When the storms of adversity, or the rough waves of temptation threaten to engulf him in ruin, then may he anchor all on Jehovah by prayer, and feel safe,—safe from the tiny foes that in vain attempt to hurl him from that sure foundation, from that all-confiding trust in an arm omnipotent.
There are numerous examples on record of the great efficacy of prayer, which show at once the goodness, power and mercy of God. It has been called “the christian’s vital breath,” and is indeed his breast-plate and armor of righteousness. A fortress of strength is found in earnest pleading at the throne of grace, unknown to him who never bows the knee, or lifts the thoughts in fervent supplication. An assurance of peace is there realized, which has stilled the fears of multitudes as they have passed through flames and torture, and which always tranquilizes the pillow of the dying saint. Prayer is a source of unending comfort to the Christian, however humble his lot, or however much he may buffet the winds of adversity.
“Oh when the heart is full—when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery, how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer?”
While the efficacy of this soul-elevating exercise is felt by those who indulge it, they may feel too, that selfishness is not one of its characteristics, but that while they plead for themselves, they may also remember their friends, and are commanded to pray for their enemies.
God often hears prayer for others in as signal a manner as when offered for ourselves. The pastor feels strong in the Lord when his flock remember him often and fervently at the throne of grace; the word in his hand is as “a fire and hammer,” for he comes before his people “clad in a panoply divine.” When the great reformer, Luther, was arraigned before the Cardinal legate of Augsburg, that he might if possible, be induced to retract his propositions and sermons, he wrote to a friend thus: “I doubt not that in answer to the prayers of pious souls, God will send me deliverance,” and adds emphatically, “I seem to feel that prayer is being made for me.” God did indeed hear and answer, and its wonder-working effects are felt even at this period, aye, and will be till the end of time.
The voice of prayer is not uncongenial to any rank or condition in life, from the little child who lisps forth feeble accents, to the man of power and strength, from the humble peasant by his hearthstone, to the noble prince, who, like Solomon and David, may pour out his sweet breathings in melodious numbers and moving words, that stir the soul’s great deep. Prayer is not always answered at the hour of presentation, for God knoweth his own time, and knoweth also what it is meet for us to obtain. The works of the dead follow them, and the prayer of faith is often answered when the voice that uttered it is hushed in the grave.
“I heard the voice of prayer—a mother’s prayer,—
A dying mother for her son,
Young was his brow and fair,
Her hand was on his head,
Her words of love were said,
Her work was done.”
But the wayward child, may be, mingles in sins and follies till sick and weary of the world, he listens to the voice of conscience, and listening, hears those tones again—those tones of prayer—those sighs and tears. He turns! he lives! Then is the mother’s earnest petition answered.
The prayers of David are beautifully touching and sublime, and the lover of literature even, cannot fail to admire them, while the Christian feels that he speaks the language of the truly pious heart. But in the petitions of our Saviour, there is so much meekness and submission, so much fervor and agony, so much strength and conciseness, that we marvel. God manifest in the flesh! The weakness of human nature is not exhibited in the groans and sweat of the garden, or that last blessing on his enemies, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” The former is truthfully portrayed by one of our poets:
“In the depth of that hushed silentness,
Alone with God, he fell upon his face,
And as his heart was broken with the rush
Of his surpassing agony, and death
Wrung from him from a dying Universe
Was mightier than the Son of Man could bear,
He gave his sorrows way, and in the deep
Prostration of his soul, breathed out a prayer,
‘Father if it be possible with Thee,
Let this cup pass from me.’ O, how a word
Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks,
Stilleth the press of agony!
The Saviour felt the quiet in his soul,
And though his strength was weakness, and the light
Which led him on till now, was surely dim,
He breathed a new submission,—Not my will,
But thine be done, Oh Father.”—