“Who will take the child?” he asked. The women carefully ignored his remark. As they prepared to wrap the dead mother in her hammock, he picked up the infant. “Where shall we put it?” “Put it in here and bury it with the mother, of course.” He looked at the women. “Are you kidding?” Their unsmiling faces and sorrow-benumbed eyes were his answer. This was heathenism. Hundreds of babies had been buried alive through many generations. Why should it be different now? Who would feed a baby if the mother was dead? Do some say, “Leave the heathen alone. They’re happy as they are. Why trouble them with the Gospel?” Have they ever seen the difference between
sorrow and hopelessness - the desperate hopelessness depicted in the death wail day after day, night after night? Eternity without hope - without God! Life is precious - a God-given trust. It is to be preserved. Wearily Harold carried the babe into his own hut. Now what? Necessity being the mother of invention, he took
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