“Oh, don’t say that. You have many friends in the North;” and I was going to say, “I’ll be your friend,” but I remembered how empty such a profession of friendship would be on the part of a stranger, and instead, I said, “There is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother. Can’t you make Jesus your friend in this dark hour?”
When I spoke the name of Jesus, he cried aloud,—
“Oh! would that Jesus were my friend; but I am a great sinner.”
“But Jesus is the sinner’s friend.”
“O lady! you don’t know what a wretched sinner I am, to what lengths of wickedness I’ve run, or you would not think that Jesus could save me.”
But I answered, “You don’t know what a great Saviour we have, or you would not doubt. He is the mighty God, and he is able to save to the uttermost; and that means that he can save you.”
“It is too late. It is too late!” he cried with such bitterness of soul that the men lying upon their cots—brave young men, who bore in their own persons the marks of their heroism—covered their faces with their bedclothes, and wept like little children.
But I urged that it was not too late, and commenced telling him of the thief on the cross; but he stopped me.
“Oh, I know about the thief on the cross; but, lady, I am a thousand times worse than the thief on the cross.”
“If you were ten thousand times worse, Jesus could save you; for he can save to the uttermost.”