Go tell it on the mountain - James Baldwin [52]
‘So glad this evening, praise the Lord!’
‘Fathers, here to-night, have you ever had a son who went astray? Mothers, have you seen your daughters cut down in the pride and fullness of youth? Has any man here heard the command which came to Abraham, that he must make his son a living sacrifice on God’s altar? Fathers, think of your sons, how you tremble for them, and try to lead them right, try to feed them so they’ll grow up strong; think of your love for your son, and how any evil that befalls him cracks up the heart, and think of the pain that God has borne, sending down His only begotten Son, to dwell among men on the sinful earth, to be persecuted, to suffer, to bear the cross and die—not for His own sins, like our natural sons, but for the sins of all the world, to take away the sins of all the world—that we might have the joy of bells ringing deep in our hearts to-night!’
‘Praise Him!’ cried Deborah, and he had never heard her voice so loud.
‘Woe is me, for when God struck the sinner, the sinner’s eyes were opened, and he saw himself in all his foulness naked before God’s glory. Woe is me! For the moment of salvation is a blinding light, cracking down into the heart from Heaven—Heaven so high, and the sinner so low. Woe is me! For unless God raised the sinner, he would never rise again!’
‘Yes, Lord! I was there!’
How many here to-night had fallen where Isaiah fell? How many had cried—as Isaiah cried? How many could testify, as Isaiah testified, ‘Mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts’? Ah, whosoever failed to have this testimony should see His face, but should be told, on that great day: ‘Depart from me, ye that work iniquity,’ and be hurled for ever into the lake of fire prepared for Satan and all his angels. Oh, would the sinner rise to-night, and walk the little mile to his salvation, here to the mercy seat?
And he waited. Deborah watched him with a calm, strong smile. He looked out over their faces, their faces all upturned to him. He saw joy in those faces, and holy excitement, and belief—and they all looked up to him. Then, far in the back, a boy rose, a tall, dark boy, his white shirt open at the neck and torn, his trousers dusty and shabby and held up with an old necktie, and he looked across the immeasurable, dreadful, breathing distance up to Gabriel, and began to walk down the long, bright aisle. Someone cried: ‘Oh, bless the Lord!’ and tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. The boy knelt, sobbing, at the mercy seat, and the church began to sing.
Then Gabriel turned away, knowing that this night he had run well, and that God had used him. The elders all were smiling, and one of them took him by the hand, and said: ‘That was mighty fine, boy. Mighty fine.’
Then came the Sunday of the spectacular dinner that was to end the revival—for which dinner, Deborah and all the other women, had baked, roasted, fried, and boiled for many days beforehand. He jokingly suggested to repay her a little for her contention that he was the best preacher of the revival, that she was the best cook among the women. She timidly suggested that he was here at a flattering disadvantage, for she had heard all of the preachers, but he had not, for