Prisons and Prayer; Or, a Labor of Love

Going on my way later in the day, outside the city where I changed cars, I saw hurrying toward me the same man who had given me the dollar in the morning. He said, "I have been thinking all day about you and what you said and here is another dollar for you." I told him how I felt God had used him to convince the fashion plate man, that if we fully trust and serve the Lord He will provide for us. I have never seen either of these men again since that day, but God sent me the two dollars in place of the one dollar I had given that poor woman the night before, in the meeting.

The sequel was given me sometime after this when I again met that poor sister. She said to me, "Sister Wheaton, I want to tell you about the dollar you gave me that night in the meeting," and then she said: "I had nothing in my house for my children to eat (there was a large family of them), and husband was out of work. I had to wash next day and had neither soap nor starch, and I had to go across the city to pray for a sick woman, whose son had said that he would believe in God and serve him if his mother were healed in answer to prayer. I had to take that young man with me and pay his car fare and my own. The mother was healed and the young man, being convinced, yielded himself to God and was converted and became a Christian." And then she added, "All this your dollar did, for I had prayed God to send me a dollar that night and you obeyed God and see what was accomplished through obedience to the God who hears the ravens when they cry and notes the sparrow's fall."

Then I related to her my experience to show how the Lord used a stranger to return me double, or two dollars instead of one, and perhaps saved two men—for God was evidently dealing both with the stranger who gave me the money and with the one with whom I was speaking on the street.

MISCELLANEOUS INCIDENTS

I was once called upon to minister to the needs of a woman who was burned almost to death. I assisted the doctor as best I could to dress the burns. I took the scissors and cut the loose flesh from her arm, and held her while the doctor filed the rings from her hands.

If I had not been previously convinced by the Scriptures of the folly of wearing rings I think this awful sight would have been sufficient to satisfy any doubts in my mind, as they cut so cruelly deep into the charred and swollen flesh. She finally passed away to that land where there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.

While being entertained at a certain place a few years ago, a caller was announced one evening, to see "Mother Wheaton." Entering the parlor a tall, handsome man, dressed in the uniform of a policeman, advanced to greet me. I bowed politely, but perhaps a little distantly, as I did not know him. He came forward and extended his hand cordially, saying, "Don't you know me, Mother?" I said, "No, I do not know you." He said "I sang in – prison in the choir. I served a term there and heard you sing and preach there. This is my daughter," and he presented a nice looking young lady who was with him. He said he now held a responsible position and was getting along nicely, and invited me to come and visit his family.

While holding meetings in a little town in one of the southern states, I was entertained at the home of a wealthy man who was accused of crime. He had a beautiful wife and lovely children. I was greatly troubled about his condition. I held meetings there in the home. I was treated very kindly and cordially welcomed, but he would not yield to God. I warned him faithfully, and plead with him to repent of his sins and become a Christian. I told him that a terrible calamity awaited him if he did not yield himself to the Lord. I went away believing it was his last chance of salvation. Not long after that he laid in wait to kill a man against whom he had had a grudge for some time; but the other man seeing his intention, drew his revolver and fired in self-defence. The man fell dead. He had had his last call. He had rejected the Lord and was ushered into eternity without a moment's warning.

One day years ago, in M–, Mississippi, I went on the street to hold a meeting. A policeman came along and forbade me after I had begun to sing, saying it was against the law to hold religious services on the street. My spirit was grieved as I felt the Lord had a work for me to do among the poor and lowly who were too poorly clad to attend church services. A sister (a woman of God who entertained me) was with me. She then proposed taking me to see a sick child, an infant. When we reached the house we found the young parents weeping over their dying child. My heart was touched with sympathy, and kneeling down I asked Him who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me," to heal the child for His glory. I believed His word where it says, "The prayer of faith shall save the sick." My faith touched divinity, the child was healed and the young parents, seeing the power of God manifested, were converted, and gave their lives to God for His service.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Selections from My Scrap Book

Many of the selections given in this chapter were written by prisoners and given me by them. The others may not all be new to the reader, but I have thought them of sufficient value to thus preserve, as they may be reread with profit, and no doubt may be read here by many who have not seen them elsewhere. Such will surely feel the time it takes to read them well spent.

Many of the songs I have sung are not in print here, as they are familiar or may be found in popular books; others I thought might be copyrighted and I do not know the owner, etc. I have not meant to use any copyright selections without procuring the right to do so, but if through mistake any have been used I shall be glad to make due requital.

THE AUTHOR OF FLOWER MISSION DAY

I once visited this sister, a saint, meekly lying upon her bed, and when I asked if she would like for Jesus to heal her, she said God could use her better in that condition.

E. R. W.

Jennie Cassady was born in Louisville, Kentucky, June 9, 1840. She came to earth through no royal line of ancestry. No booming cannon and flying flags proclaimed the birth of a princess. No jeweled hand beckoned her to a place of rank and title. Nothing in babyhood or girlhood distinguished her above what is visible in ten thousand homes to-day. But as she stepped over the threshold into womanhood, there fell upon her a great calamity—a cruel accident made her a cripple and an invalid for life. But in her afflictions she arose to a sublimity and sweetness of soul that has challenged the admiration of two continents. And out of the awful shadows that fell upon her she has gathered up the sunbeams of God's smiles and scattered them into the dark places of earth. Out of that one little darkened room in Kentucky there has gone forth an inspiration that has fired the heart of heroic Christian womanhood. And out of the darkness that smote her pathway leaped the lances of light that pierces the gloom of prison walls. A gleam from that radiant life touches the poet's fancy, and gives us these beautiful lines.

J. M. CROCKER,Prison Chaplain.

FLOWER DAY AT THE PRISON

Composed and read by F. L. Platt at the Iowa State Prison at Anamosa, June 9th, 1894.

In a cottage in Kentucky,In the years that have gone by,Was a woman, oh, so lonely,She'd been given up to die.As she lay upon her sick bed,Ere the spark of life had flown,Neighbors called, and strangers also,Whom before she had not known.They had heard of her misfortune,Day and night she lingered there;And to make her life more cheerfulSeemed to be their every care.Now they come, with noiseless footsteps,As the rose is kissed with dew,Each one bringing in some sunshine,In "these flowers I've brought for you."As she looked into their faces,Realizing death had come,"Take these flowers," she said, "I'm dying,"They will brighten other homes.Take them, give them to the childrenWho in orphans' homes are found,Who have parents silent sleepingUnderneath some grassy mound.Take them, place them by the bedsideOf some one whose life is drear;They will bring a ray of sunshine,They will drive away a tear.Take them, bear them to the prison,Where the trembling convict stands;They'll encourage and they'll cheer him,And they'll help him be a man.They will speak to him of Heaven,Of a home with God above;They'll dispel the gloom and heartache,They'll recall a mother's love.They'll remind him of a sister,With youth's bloom upon her brow,With whom he used to gather flowersWhen life was bright as yours is now.They'll recall some little sweetheartIn the early spring of life,Who, when summer flowers were blooming,He had asked to be his wife.Oh, that wife! may God's own blessingRest upon her loyal head;Though he's caused her many a heartache,She would love him were he dead.Then with all these sacred memoriesWelling in these hearts of ours,Who in all this land of sunshineCould forbid this gift of flowers?Bring the flowers with sweetest perfume,This is flower mission day;Some forlorn, discouraged prisoner,"You may rescue, you may save."Blest the home that knows no sorrow,Blest that wife, whose tears are joy,Blest that mother who in old age,Can lean upon her darling boy.Men, look up, the clouds have gathered,Some of them are silver-lined;There's a day when all creationWill be marshalled into line.When these prison walls are sundered;When the grave gives up its dead,All may march the streets of HeavenWho by Jesus Christ are led.

LINES BY A PRISONER TO HIS WIFE

These lines were handed me by the author. I insert them here because of their clear testimony to the saving grace of God and the love they manifest for wife and children:

Dearest wife, you know I love thee,Deep as yonder sky;Know that love can never fade,Affection never die.Though in prison I am cast,And cannot now return,Yet on thee my love reclines,For thee my heart will burn.God has made us one indeed,In ways the world can never know.One, like drops of water foundWithin the pure white snow.God has made us one indeed;Has joined us, hand and heart;What God has joined together, wife,Let no man put apart.As well might men uproot the earthAs by their scoff or scornThink to accomplish parting usBecause our hearts now mourn.Nay, dear wife, I feel for thee,As ne'er I felt before,Prizing thee with deeper strengthFor pining sad and sore.While there you wait my glad release,The day that sets me free,Await my coming home to wife;Yes, wife and children three.And I will come. Have patience, wife,The time will wear away,And day by day approaches nearThat glad releasing day.With little baby in your arms,Two others at your knee;I know, dear wife, your heart is sadAnd longs to see me free.To help you in your daily toil;To earn for them their bread;To clothe and help and comfort them,And find a shelter for each head.But cheer up, wife, and so will I,As mankind surely may,Till darkness fade in morning lightThat ushers in the day.And oh, what joy will visit us,What peace in that glad hour;Our home shall then renew its strengthIn all its silent power.Here as I lay me down to sleep,In my narrow little cell,I think of the happy times we've spentIn the shady wooded dell.How we plucked the flowers beside our path,And strolled along the stream,Neither feeling aught of sorrow,For life was like a pleasant dream.But alas, my dear one, all is changed;And we are parted now for years;But well we know that God will comeAnd wipe away our falling tears.Sin, dear wife, hast brought the change;Sin has caused our grief and pain;But now that I trust in JesusI will never fall again.In my very darkest momentsWould you know what comforts me?'Tis my living faith in Jesus,In Him who died on Calvary.He died on the cross for you, dear wife,His precious blood was shed for me;All our sins on Him were laidWhen they nailed Him to the tree.And now that blessed Saviour,Who was born at Bethlehem,Looks down from the heights of heavenOn the sinful souls of men.His thoughts are full of mercy,His heart is filled with love.He is pleading with the FatherThat we might come above.So we will trust our Saviour,And follow where He leads;And say, in faith believing,He'll provide for all our needs.So we'll walk close beside HimAnd let Him take our hand;As He points, with face all shining,To that bright and happy land.And oft to others round usThe story we will tell,How Jesus Christ saves sinners,The heavenly hosts to swell.You will tell them, wife, how He found me,Sinful and all cast down,And how through love He raised me upAnd promised me a crown.And when we see still othersCaught in Satan's snare,We'll lead them on to Jesus,And leave them in His care.And when He treats them gently,As He treats both you and me,Other sinners, looking on,To His bosom soon will flee.For thus the world around usFor Christ could soon be won;He'll end in glorious triumphThe work He has begun.All glory then to Jesus!Sing praises to His name!He saved lost sinners years gone by,And today He'll do the same.In language very simpleI've told to you, dear wife,My love to you, your love to me,And the love of Jesus Christ.So we'll just keep on trustingIn the Saviour God has given;And He will fill with peaceOur journey on to heaven.And we'll not forget the Father,But give thanks for all He's done,In giving us our Saviour,In His own beloved Son.

WOMAN'S LOVE

TO MRS. WHEATON

These lines are most respectfully presented as a prisoner's tribute of sincere respect:

O, woman's love, past understanding!So near to God's, so wondrous deep:Deep as the depths of space; expandingTill it blooms beyond death's mystic sleepThroughout the earth, the rich and lowlyIt reigns supreme within her breast.O, woman's love! through its beauty holyShe will win eternal rest.Born of woman, purest, dearestLily of fair Bethlehem,Christ to her will be the nearestIn his bright home—Jerusalem.A fadeless flower in beauty blooming'Midst heaven's host of immortelles.His peerless love her soul perfumingShe'll reign a queen mid arch angelsJ. W. L.Cole City, Ga., Sunday night, Nov. 17, 1889.

TAKE THIS MESSAGE TO MY MOTHER

(Written by a Prisoner in Jackson, Miss.)Take this message to my mother,It will fill her heart with joy;Tell her that her prayer is answered,Christ has saved her wandering boy:Tho' through sin from home I've wandered,And I almost broke her heart;Tell her to be glad and cheerful,Never from the Lord I'll part.CHORUS.Take this message to my mother,It will fill her heart with joy;Tell her that her prayer is answered,Christ has saved her wandering boy.How she wept when last we parted,How her heart did ache with painWhen she said: "Good-bye, God bless you,We may never meet again."O my boy, just look to Jesus,What a friend He is to all!Only trust Him, He will save you—Can't you hear His sweet voice call?In this world of sin are manyWho have wandered far from God.Will your mother's prayers be answered?Listen, sinner, you, her boy.You have ofttimes heard this warning,In your heart conviction's deep;God is calling to the wandererWho asks mercy at his feet.

NOT LONELY NOW

I am not lonely, mother, now,Though far from me you roam.One dried my tears and smoothed my brow,And stilled the sob and groan.I am not lonely, mother, dear,For Jesus dwells with me, e'en here.All day I feel Him by my side;And when betimes would comeThe Evil One, I quickly hideBehind my Precious One.Think you I'm lonely, mother, dear,When Jesus thus is ever near?And when at night I think of thee,As in my cell I sit,Bright vision of thy form I seeBy His own presence lit.Can I be lonely, mother, dear,When thy pure spirit is so near?Farewell, my darling mother-friend,And if for aye, Oh! fare thee well!Whate'er betide, unto the end,Christ's love for me I'll gladly tell.

The following was written by a young brother who, with his wife, were with me for a time in my work. In thanking them for a kindness done me I used the words, "Jesus is looking on," implying that He would reward them. Only an hour or so afterward the young brother handed me these lines, suggested by my words:

Little did I think when I spoke the words that they would make so deep an impression upon his mind. How little we realize what a word may do.

JESUS IS LOOKING ON

"The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous and his ears are open unto their cry." Ps. 34.

[TUNE, "ARE YOU WITHIN THE FOLD TONIGHT?"]1. While traveling as a pilgrimAcross life's desert drear,My feet ofttimes are weary,Mine eyes oft drop a tear;But when I look to Jesus,All weariness is gone,My heart then joys within meTo know He's looking on.CHORUSYes, He is ever looking on,With anxious ear our cry to hear.He hears each sigh,He sees each tear;He knows each heart "with sorrow riven,"He hears each word of joy or moan,And whispers gently in our ear,I'm looking, looking on.2. When troubles rage around me,And trials fiery come,My thoughts are then directedTo my eternal home.Though walking on the mountain,Or on the verdant lawn,This is the thought that cheers me,He's always looking on.3. When friends do turn against me,And frown and persecute,I'm then brought nearer Jesus,Than when my foes are mute.While Jesus walks beside me,His arm I'll lean upon,And ne'er forget the promise,He's always looking on.4. Take courage, brother pilgrim,And let us journey on,For soon life's many trialsWill all have passed and gone;Then sweeping up to gloryWe'll join the ransomed throng,And sing God's endless praises,While He is looking on.

HOW GOD CALLS MISSIONARIES OUT OF PRISON CELLS

S. H. HADLEYSuperintendent of the Old McAuley Mission

Some of the best missionaries this world ever knew are men who have been sentenced to long terms in prison. Wholly shut away from the world and its dreadful temptations, God had a chance to speak to them. Jerry McAuley was a wonderful example of this, and that drunken loafer and thief was finally used so wonderfully by the Lord God that his name has gone all over this world and has been an inspiration to millions. He was sent to prison from the Fourth Ward of New York for fifteen years at the age of nineteen.

One Sunday morning in the chapel the speaker was old "Awful" Gardener, an old-time ruffian and prize-fighter in New York, but God had got hold of him and he had been wonderfully saved. With tears streaming down his face, he told of the love of Christ, and he said, "Boys, I ought to be wearing the stripes the same as you are, and I feel a deep sympathy for you."

He also quoted some verses from the Scriptures, and after the boys had gone back to their cells Jerry found a Bible in the ventilator of his cell, and, looking it over aimlessly, tried to find the text that "Awful" Gardener had quoted, but instead he found that Christ came to save sinners, and the Holy Spirit showed him his dreadful past life. As the day grew into night, Jerry got down on his knees and began to pray. He had never prayed before, but now he cried to God for help and mercy. How long he was there he does not know, but some time during the night a glorious light dispelled the deep darkness of his soul, and he cried out, "Oh, praise God, I found Jesus, and He gives peace to my soul." The unusual sound brought the keeper, who asked, "What is the matter with you?"

Jerry answered, "I found Jesus, that's what's the matter with me."

He found some opportunities to breathe out the new-found hopes of his soul and the love of Jesus to the prisoners about him. Soon a revival broke out in the prison such as never had been seen before or since, and Jerry was the center of it all. He was pardoned in 1864, but when he got home he had no friends, no money, and he soon fell into bad company, and got to be a worse scoundrel than he ever was before. It was after this he became known as the dangerous East River pirate. He was reclaimed in 1868, and although he fell five times after that during the first eight or nine months, he was finally anchored to Christ.

Do you know that every drunkard uses tobacco? Jerry was no exception. Some faithful friends said to him. "Jerry, give up your tobacco for Jesus' sake," and he gave it up, and then he never fell afterward.

He was afterward married to Maria, his faithful wife, who also was redeemed from a drunkard's life, and in 1872 opened the world-renowned McAuley Mission, at 316 Water Street, down on the East Side, nearly under the Brooklyn Bridge.

He stayed here ten years, and then opened the Cremorne Mission, Thirty-second Street and Sixth Avenue, where he died in 1884, and had the largest funeral of any private citizen who was ever buried in New York.

The writer succeeded Jerry McAuley down there, and the work is going on night and day. Drunkards and thieves come in by the thousand, and, thank God, many of them are saved unto life eternal. The writer is also a convert of Jerry McAuley Mission.—The Life Boat.

OUTSIDE THE PRISON WALLS

Free, free at last he left the dreary jail,And stepped into the dewy April night;Once more he breathed, untainted, God's pure air,And saw the evening star's sweet trembling light.How strange! how strange! and yet how strangely dearThe old familiar turf beneath his feet!How wonderful once more to be aloneUnwatched, unguarded, 'neath the sky's broad sweep.Free! free again—but O, so old and worn—So weary with his wasted, ruined life—Full twenty years the cell, his only home—Full twenty years with hopeless misery rife!His thoughts sped backward till they reached that dayWhen he had entered that grim house, a boy—Naught but a boy in stature and in years,But with a heart all bare of hope and joy.For in a dreadful moment, crazed with rum,His hand had laid a fellow creature low,And for that glass of brandy in his brainFull twenty years of wretchedness and woe.And now, a gray-haired man, he walked againThe very path his boyish feet had pressedSo many, many years ago;And now he wandered lonely, seeking rest.Where should he go? Where now his footsteps turn?No living soul was there to welcome him!No friend of all his youthful days he knewWould greet again this wanderer in sin.Unconsciously, he sought his boyhood's home,The low, white cottage he had held so dear;'Twas standing in its old accustomed place,But strangers had dwelt there for many a year.Where next? The tears stood in his mournful eyes;His breath came thick and fast—he could not stir,But leaned upon the old familiar gateWith thoughts of mother—O, could he find her?Where was she now—that mother, sweet and good,Who tried with tears and prayers to save her boy,Who knelt alone at midnight's solemn hourAnd mourned for him who should have been her joy.His faltering steps at last he vaguely turnedUnto the silent churchyard near the sea,And stood alone while pitying moonbeams spreadAround his form a veil of charity.Alone with God in that still, solemn place,Alone with hundreds of the silent dead,The outcast stood with lowly, sin-sick heart,The cold night dew upon his drooping head.At last he found her in a place apart,Where moonbeams sparkled through the willow boughs,And shone upon her simple headstone whiteThat marked the limit of her narrow house.'Twas but a snowy marble, simple, plain,That bore her name, her age, and just below—"Died of a broken heart"—alas! he knewThe cause of all that life and death of woe.He flung himself face down upon the grass,Alone between the living and the dead,And wept and prayed beside the lonely graveUntil in sorrow's slumber sunk his head.They found him in the morning, stiff and cold,His hands clasped o'er his mother's lowly grave,His head upon its turf, as though he thoughtThat turf the bosom his poor heart had craved.Upon his pallid cheeks the trace of tearsShowed in the glowing ray of morning's sun,But o'er that face there shone a wondrous peace,A smile of joy now all his life was done.Men marveled that he looked so young againDespite his crown of sorrow-silvered hair,And tender-hearted women sighed and weptAnd smiled to think that they had found him there.Ah! God is good! with loving tendernessHe saw the sad, repentant soul aloneWeep out his sin upon his mother's grave,And gently led the weary wanderer home.This we believe: That now in Heaven's streetThe mother and her son are reconciled,And all the pain and sin of earth belowAre blotted out, and he is God's own child.—Hattie F. Crocker, in Union Signal.

IF WE KNEW

If we knew the heart's sad sighingIn the secret hour;If we knew the bitter cryingO'er the tempter's power,Slower would we be to censure,Kinder in reproof;From the erring, peradventure,We would not stand aloof.If we knew the hard, stern struggleOf the one who fell,Toiling on 'mid grief and troubleThat none but God can tell,Our thoughts, perhaps, would be kinder,Our help more pitiful—Be of God's love a reminderTo the tempted soul.If we knew the fierce temptation,Could we feel the painOf the deep humiliation,The tears shed all in vain,We, perchance, would be more gentle,Our tones more tender be;O'er his fault we'd draw the mantleOf fervent charity.If we knew how dark and cheerlessSeem the coming years,We might then appear more fearlessOf each other's cares.Could our eyes pierce through the smilingOf the face so calm,See the bitter self-reviling,We'd apply the balm.Did we walk a little nearerTo Jesus in the way,Hear His voice a little clearerWe would know how to pray.He has words of comfort givenThat we to them should speak,Ere the hopeless soul is drivenHis faith with God to break.We shall know each other better,The mists shall roll away;Nevermore we'll feel the fetterOf this toil-worn clay.Only let us love each other,'Tis our Lord's command,To each fainting friend or brotherReach a helping hand.—Anna L. Dreyer, of Missionary Training Home at Tabor, Iowa.