give to help put the roof on the ¡mission house." A tear stole down the missionary's cheek as he told the story and with fal- tering voice, he said, "It was not much they gave, my brother, but it was all they had. And oh! it was so accept- able." Ah, friend, our Father above is not a task-master, hard and exacting. He knows how little at best we have to give compared with what He has given us. Neither is He grieved that we know so little of what consecration means in all the sweep and fullness of it. All He asks is that we give ourselves to Him as best we know. And however stum- bling, faltering and feeble our conse- cration may seem to us, yet if it comes from an honest, earnest, loving heart, It is to Him, "a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable," oh! h o w acceptable. Lastly: Give Your Life to God Without Fe a r. 3 WENT one night to a near-by city to hear an address on consecra- tion. No special message came to me from it. But as the speaker kneeled to pray, he dropped this sen- tence, "O Lord, Thou knowest we can trust the Man that died for us." And that was my message. I rose and walked down street to take the train. As I walked, I pondered deeply all that consecration might mean to my life, and —I was afraid. And then, abdve the noise and clatter of the street traffic the Man that died for you." I got into the train to ride homeward. As I rode I thought of the changes, the sacrifices, the disappointments which consecration might mean to me, and—I was afraid. And then again, above the roar of the train and the hubbub of voices came the message, "You can trust the Man that died for you." I reached home and sought my room. There upon my knees I saw my past lift. I had been a Chris- tian, an officer in the church, arid a Sun- day School superintendent for years, but had never definitely yielded my life to God. Yet as I thought of the darling plans which might be baffled, of the cherished hopes to be surren- dered, and the chosen profession which I might be called upon to abandon—I was afraid. I did not see the better things God had for me. So my soul was shrinking back. And then, for the last time, with a swift rush of convicting power, came again to my innermost heart that searching message: "My child, my child, you can t r u st the Man that died for you. If you cannot trust
stead there rose up from the bosom of the mere, a wondrous hand, "Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- derful," which laid hold of the marvelous sword, brandished it three times in the air, and then drew it down into the quiet waters beneath. The precious blade had not been cast away. It had only been taken back by him who first bestowed it upon the king. Oh, friend, as you sit here tonight, the life which God is beseeching of you lies before you in all its splendor, like that blazing sword beside the faltering knight. How precious it is!. How strong! How pregnant with possibil- ities for the future! To give it to God seems like casting it away, like hurling it to a place of absolute loss. But oh! you are mistaken. For when you cast it forth, it falls—not into an engulfing sea where it is lost, but into the sea of God's love and God's will for your life. And there reaches up a hand, not "clothed with white samite," but a blood-stained hand, .a pierced hand, the hand that holds you and me tonight; and it takes your life and draws it down into the sea of God's great plan and purpose, and makes it a weapon in God's hands for the glory of His king- dom. Oh! give your life to God, and however humble, however obscure, how- ever insignificant it may seem to you, God will surely use it for His glory. Give Your Life to God as Best You Know ROM the lips of a veteran mis- f i r sionary came this story: trying mishap had come to us in our work. A fire had broken out in the mission home. Before it could be quenched the roof was entirely con- sumed. The finances of the work were at low ebb. Every dollar was needed for the necessary work of the mission. The blow was a heavy one. That even- ing, as wife and I sat and talked over the situation, it seemed as depressing as possible. By and by as we talked we heard the patter of little feet on the stairway. The stair door opened; in came four white-robed figures — our own little one3. The oldest of the four walked up to us with a knotted hand- kerchief in her hand. Untying it, she emptied the contents into my hands. There lay all their little store of earthly wealth — pennies, half-pennies and smaller fractional coins. "Papa and Mamma," said she, "we do not have very much, but all we have we want to
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