Nameless Lives
Acts iii 2 v.
“And a certain lame man was carried, whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple called Beautiful.”
Who carried him? We cannot tell. Peter and John found him at the beautiful gate of the temple, and healed him there. But the main actors of the drama were the men who brought him to the gate, and these are nameless; they are known only to God. Is it not ever so? Have we not all been carried to the gate of our destinjr by obscure hands? When we pass through the portals of beauty, do we remember our indebtedness to the unknown? Do we remember the modest lives that, like the angels of Jacob, blessed us and refused to give their names? Do we remember the mothers that planned for us, and the sisters that spun for us, and the strangers by the wayside that lent us a helping hand? How often do I read, “And they brought him to Jesus.’’ Who are “they”? It is known only to God.
They left no personal record; they planted their flowers and ran away. But the eye of the Master has followed them, and they shall not escape fame; they have a record in the Book of Life.
Son of Man, gate of all beautiful temples, help me to remember those that carried me to Thee. They sank beneath their burden and made no sign; they passed and left no monument; but they opened for me the gate called Beautiful, and I have entered in. The world thinks I have carved my own destiny because my helps are in the mist; but they are all seen, all sent, by Thee. Forbid that I should be proud of having reached the gate called Beautiful. Let me build on its threshold to the memory of the dead. Let me build to the voices long silent that have led me on. Let me build to the chords of unrecorded hearts. Let me build to the speechless prayers, the unuttered yearnings, the lonely vigils, of hidden lives. Let me build to the unspoken influences that drew my eyes to the morning, and beckoned me up with their song. Thou hast touched my lameness, and set me free; but the couch that bore my impotence yet lingers at the gate, and, if it would be to me the ivory gate and golden, the relic of my past must enter in.