The Bible and the Invalid

Salmasius was perhaps the most learned man in all the seventeenth century. He had read not only books, but libraries; and yet, when he came to die, it was his bitter exclamation, “Oh, I have lost a world of time! Had I but one year longer, it should be spent in reading David’s Psalms and Paul’s Epistles.” Wheresoever the Bible may be despised, it is sure of a respectful welcome in the sick-room; and however stalwart the intellect, however sturdy the gait of healthy days may have been, there is no comfort in the valley, without the sustaining of this staff. Some Christians stand forth from their fellows, conspicuous for moral energy or mental vigour; but in those solemn hours, there is nothing left for any but to fall back on the faithful saying. There have been few braver spirits than John Knox; few steadier thinkers than John Foster; but the biographer of the latter tells us, that “during the last two or three days of his life, the Scriptures (chiefly the Psalms) were by his own desire exclusively read to him;” and when Knox was laid on his death-bed, along with other portions, he made his attendants read to him every day the fifty-third of Isaiah and the seventeenth of John.

The late Mrs Isabella Graham of New York had compiled for her own use a little collection of scriptures and hymns, which she entitled “Provision for my Last Journey through the Wilderness, and Passage over Jordan.” And whether collected into a manual or not, it is well to have at command those portions of the Word which, thoroughly trusted in the faintest hour, will be “everlasting arms” around the spirit. For such purposes none are so suitable as the simplest announcements of God’s forgiving and fatherly mercy, — those gospels of His grace which constitute the pre-eminence and the charm of the scriptural revelation. Short and plain, they are divinely adapted to the languid powers of sickness; or, should there be a capacity for more sustained attention, the gentle words of the Saviour, and the soft breathings of the psalmist, will fall on the ear more soothingly than the accents of the most tender human comfoiter.

However, the sickness may not be “unto death;” at least so gentle is its progress, and so slowly do its stages succeed one another, that the house appointed for all living is a terminus far off and rarely remembered. You have little pain; you are only very feeble? Or, you have paroxysms of severe suffering, but with long intervals of ease? You hope to get better? Or, you fear that you will not? We do not know how it is with the frail body; only you are an invalid. And in that circumstance you have a special call to acquaint yourself with the Word of God; and for attaining this acquaintance you have a great advantage. God in His providence is now saying, “Arise; this is not your rest;” and by secluding you from distracting occupations or giddy friends, He is giving you a rare opportunity to commence that acquaintance with Himself which will make you blessed now and ever.

In his old age Carsten Niebuhr, the great traveller, was blind; but, as he lay on his bed or reposed in his easy-chair, his face would be often luminous with an inward joy. He was meditating on the splendid scenes which he had so often viewed in the sunny Eastern land: and as its glowing landscapes and its brilliant starry vault rose again from the depths of his memory, he feared for them no eclipse, and never missed the flat marshes of Holstein. And so, dear reader, should God open your eyes to the won-The Bible and the Invalid.

ders of His Word, you will not be resourceless though all other joys are cut off. You will grow intimate with patriarchs, and apostles, and other noble acquaintances whose names are in the Book, and whose present abode is in the many mansions. You will get to know a Friend whose earthly history is in the Book, and whose present home is at the right hand of the Father; — a Friend who, when the midnight taper reveals nothing save an empty room, is still so nigh that He can hear your softest whisper: and were you breathing forth your spirit in the silence, would bear it instantly to the bosom of immortality, and introduce it to the white-robed company. You will become familiar with the New Jerusalem, an4 the tree of life, and the pearly gates, and the crystal river. And, mayhap, as you meditate on these, and as you essay to think on the glorious perfections of the great I Am, and as you muse on the paradise that was, and on. the new earth that is coming, and as precious promises crowd round you, each with an earnest in its arms, — amidst the bliss of believing God’s truth and the joy of enduring God’s will, you may get such songs in the night as never were heard in the halls of the worldling, and the visions of God will eclipse all the pageants of time.

So was it with a happy sufferer whose history we lately read. Poor and dependent, for six-and-thirty years the victim of incurable maladies, often undergoing excruciating agony, sometimes for a lengthened period blind, few have experienced the exquisite enjoyment of which her shattered tenement was the habitual abode. As she wrote to a friend, “My nights are very pleasant in general. I feel like David when he said, 6 1 wait for the Lord; my soul doth wait: and in His Word do I hope.’ And while I am enabled to contemplate the wonders of redeeming grace and love, the hours pass swiftly on, and the morn appears even before I am aware.” “I experience so much of the Saviour’s love in supporting me under pain, that I cannot fear its increase.’’ Once, when a lady, shuddering at the spectacle of her sufferings, said that if called to endure such pain herself her faith must fail, Harriet quoted the text. “Strengthened with all might, unto all long-suffering with joyfulness,” and added, “Yes: and I think this is one end to be answered in my long afflictions — encouragement iox others to trust in Him. This precious Book is my constant companion, and its truths and promises my unfailing support.”*

* 14 Gold Tried in the Fire: a Memoir of Harriet Sloneman.”