Prisons and Prayer; Or, a Labor of Love

by Elizabeth Ryder Wheaton

When I entered their prison with the death-watch I was overcome with sorrow for the poor unfortunates who so soon would be in eternity, and as I came in the door one of the prisoners said, "O, it is Mother Wheaton." As I clasped his hand he said, "Mother, I knew you twenty years ago." I said, "Where?" and he said, "In San Francisco." Reader, you may try to sympathize or criticize at such a time, with them and me, but you never will know what the suffering is until you have passed through this ordeal of just standing alone with the good Lord and the condemned, so soon to die that horrible death. You cannot picture it, for death is awful to those not prepared to die—filled with remorse of conscience and sorrow for the deed done while under the influence of whiskey and possessed with the devil, which the strong drink causes—and then to have no hope in this world or the world to come, and alone with their conscience, the death-watch, myself and our God.

I knelt in prayer. First to ask wisdom of the blessed Christ who never turned anyone away, and then, taking each one by the hand through the iron bars, I was lost to this world and its opinions and criticisms. I entered into their heart-sorrow, and at once took hold on God for the salvation of their immortal souls. Quietly, but with strong faith in God and the atoning blood of Jesus our Saviour, I believed for their salvation. Human sympathy will not avail. It is the suffering and death of Christ which avails in the face of death. And I believe, if Jacob prevailed in prayer as a prince, it is our privilege to believe God hears and answers prayer and saves to the uttermost the vilest sinner who truly repents of his sins, and claims His promises. "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." Isa. 1:18.

We wept and prayed together, and while I sang the good old hymns our mothers knew and loved and sung for us in childhood, we took hold on God by faith for their souls' salvation, and I believe God heard and answered our prayers, that fifteenth day of November, 1905, in that prison, and that those men that day were forgiven their sins. I know God's Word is sure, and I depend daily on the Bible and its holy teachings, and accept His promise, and receive the answer from God that His pardon is sure.

I told the men I had no hope for their lives to be spared—that the Governor had not given me any encouragement for them, but had invited me to meet with him and the Board of Pardons at 2 p. m., and see what they would do in the case. I pleaded with them to let go all hope of a life sentence, and prepare to die, for there was only one more day for them to live—that I had nothing to give them of hope, only in the precious blood of Jesus—that their days were numbered.

O, the human heart is susceptible to suffering, and my suffering was intense for them. I was weak and weary, having traveled two days and two nights without rest. Yet I could not rest when there was so much at stake for them. I abandoned myself to the Holy Ghost to guide me in the service, and then as I took each hand, so soon to be cold in death, I knew only God could save them. I shall not forget the parting with those poor, unfortunate men, all in the prime of life and strength of manhood. I will meet them again soon in the presence of God.

I was so weak in body that the officer kindly assisted me to the main prison, where I was to hold services with all of the prisoners. It was high noon, and the warden and officers urged me to take refreshments. I said, "No, I am soon going to the judgment, and I want to go with a clear conscience. How could I eat, when all these prisoners need the gospel so much?" And they kindly gave me the privilege of an hour's service. Then, after a hurried lunch, which was both breakfast and dinner, the state carriage was ready to take me to the Capitol to meet the Governor and Board of Pardons. But there was no hope, the Board refused to commute the sentence, and all four were executed November 17, for the death of one young man. Soon I must stand together at the judgment bar of God, with those whose lives were taken, one by the four under the influence of whiskey, which makes men and women crazy and worse than brutes; licensed by the laws of our land—the others by the men who, in their right minds, as executors of the law, put to death the helpless victims who had truly repented of their sins and promised to obey God and the rules, and live good law-abiding citizens.

I want it understood that I believe in law and its enforcement. I sympathize with both the murdered and the murderers. I believe in obeying God and His laws and enforcing discipline, and I assist the officers of the state to maintain law and order, but I say, give deliverance from the abominable saloon and all the evil that follows in its wake. Give us judges, jurymen and officers, who, in every sense try to banish and abolish the liquor traffic and the dens of sin, and there will be no need of our state officers having to take life which none can give.

Leaving the Capitol after the decision was made by the Board of Pardons and Governor, I went to the hotel to tell the two sisters of one of the condemned men that all hope of their brother's life was gone, and that they must prepare to face the awful sorrow of losing their brother. That scene was O, so pitiful! The brother and these two sisters were orphans. He was a good boy and supported the two sisters after the parents had died, but he had fallen into bad company who had led him astray. The sisters were heart broken. It seemed as if they could not give up that dear brother who had done so much for them. I helped them on the train, and went with them as far as Reno, Nevada, and we parted to meet again after all the sorrow and mistakes of our lives are forgotten and forgiven.

After leaving them I held services for the Salvation Army friends and on the street. Then left that night, though very weary, for the east. After taking the train, I could see in my mind those poor condemned men, waiting the few last hours until the law should have its way. Eternity alone will reveal all hearts and lives.

Arrived at Ogden, I went to the Crittendon Home, then on to the State Industrial School for Boys and Young Men, and had a service in all the cottages. Was with them two evenings. They all seemed cheered by the old good songs and the services. Saying "Good-bye" to all in their dining room at their daylight breakfast hour, I left them for the east.