“Ay, there’ll be four,” said old Berthold, bowing reverently. “Sure enough, Pastor, whatever we are called upon to bear, there will be One more than our number, and His form shall be that of the Son of God. Well! the children will be safe, no question. But I am afraid the hottest corner of the furnace may be kept for you, dear Teacher.”
“Be it so,” answered Gerhardt quietly. “Let my Lord do with me what is good in His sight; only let me bring glory to Him, and show forth His name among the people.”
“Ay, but it does seem strange,” was the response, “that the work should be stopped, and the cause suffer, and eloquent lips be silenced, just when all seemed most needed! Can you understand it, Pastor?”
“No,” said Gerhardt calmly. “Why should I? He understands who has it all to do. But the cause, Berthold! The cause will not suffer. It is God’s custom to bring good out of evil—to give honey to His Samsons out of the carcases of lions, and to bring His Davids through the cave of Adullam to the throne of Israel. It is for Him to see that the cause prospers, in His own time and way. We have only to do each our little handful of duty, to take the next step as He brings it before us. Sometimes the next step is a steep pull, sometimes it is only an easy level progress. We have but to take it as it comes. Never two steps at once; never one step, without the Lord at our right hand. Never a cry of ‘Lord, save me!’ from a sinking soul, that the hand which holds up all the worlds is not immediately stretched forth to hold him up.”
“One can’t always feel it, though,” said the old man wistfully.
“It is enough to know it.”
“Ay, when we two stand talking together in Overee Lane (Overee Lane ran out of Grandpont Street, just below the South Gate), so it may be: but when the furnace door stands open, an King Nebuchadnezzar’s mighty men are hauling you towards it, how then, good Pastor?”
“Berthold, what kind of a father would he be who, in carrying his child over a bridge, should hold it so carelessly that he let it slip from his arms into the torrent beneath, and be drowned?”
“Couldn’t believe such a tale, Pastor, unless the father were either drunk or mad. Why, he wouldn’t be a man—he’d be a monster.”
“And is that the character that thou deemest it fair and true to give to Him who laid down His life for thee?”