Behold the bleeding lamb of God,
Nail’d to the shameful tree;
How vast the love that him constrain’d
To bleed and die for me.
About an hour after, leaning upon the shoulder of one of the visitors, he requested him to sing that sweet hymn again, in which he joined them, with a sweet and heavenly frame of mind; but Satan was to have his last onset, and about the middle of the night the enemy harrassed him sorely, deep darkness pervaded his mind, and his heart trembled with fear. The dear friends perceiving this, advised him to retire and read alone, and they withdrew to the other end of the room. After he had read a little, he fell on his knees, and prayed most fervently, consistently, and scripturally. Satan left him, and his mind became quite serene. At seven in the morning, when he was preparing all things necessary for his final departure, he addressed a fellow prisoner in a most surprizing and affecting manner; spoke of the mercy he had received, and encouraged him to call on God for pardoning mercy, through the doing and dying of the Lord Jesus Christ. The visitors then read a letter from his dear friend, the uncle of the dear child, in which he praised God for the mercy Mr. D. had found, and from the tenor of the letter, we trust the day dawns on his mind, and the day star begins to shine.
Mr. D. attended the solemn service at the chapel, and received the Lord’s supper; not to make his peace with God, but in thankfulness to his dear Lord who had made it for him on mount Calvary. The solemn bell announced his approach, and my soul was overwhelmed with solemn grief, which I endeavored to vent out in prayers and tears. At nine o’Clock I heard him, having ascended the scaffold, in supplication, which increased in fervent entreaties, and committing his soul into the hands of the Redeemer. His petitions were earnest and importunate, and as he increased in agitation, so also in devout intreaties, crying, Lord Jesus receive my spirit; Look, look upon a poor murderer. Oh, by the blood of the cross, by the blood of calvary, look upon me. Lord have mercy upon me. Lord— here he was going to speak again, but the drop fell, and his soul took its flight to the bosom of its Saviour and its God; with Christ in his heart, heaven in his eye, and Lord—on his tongue. Thus died poor Mr. D. a sinner, saved by grace alone.
I trust his sad case was laid on the hearts of many God-fearing persons, and many prayers were put up for him, nor did they return empty. Some of our dear friends had several precious tokens for his good; and I am happy to say I gave some hope, that the death of Mr. D. is the means of the spiritual life of one in the family: perhaps it will not end here. I must add, that the worthy family to whom the child belonged, most freely forgave him the rash act, and paid every attention to him during his confinement.
From this short account of poor Mr. D. I think we may discover some of those blessed evidences which characterize a real believer. His brokenness of spirit and honest confessions, prove his humility before God: his crying day and night to the Lord, evidence his eternal election; his mind being led to the Saviour manifested his adoption, and his receiving the atonement and resting upon Jesus, shewed that his faith was genuine. His temptations demonstrate Satan’s hatred to him, and his entreaties for mercy to the last moment, prove that he had obtained mercy: “Is not this a brand plucked out of the fire?” I would call your attention in this letter, to the infinite evil of sin, the mystery of divine providence, the wonders of almighty grace, and the necessity of fervent prayer for divine keeping; “Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe;” but this would fill a volume. You can recollect I have observed, that the Lord in general resents a murder in his own way, and in his own time, although the murderer may escape condign punishment. This has been proved in many instances, one of which I have just read in the Methodist Magazine, which I will just mention in few words.
A gentleman was riding over Hounslow Heath, when a poor man, with his little boy, ran after him to solicit relief; but the gentleman refusing, the beggar continued his intreaties, which aggravated him that he drew his sword and laid the poor beggar on the ground, and then rode away: the poor boy screamed out that his father was killed. Ten years after this, as he was riding near the same place, some boys were playing at cricket, and one of them hit the gentleman’s toe with his ball. It was painful, and a surgeon at Brentford, told him it would prove of dangerous consequence. He came to London for advice, and was informed he must suffer amputation, as a mortification had actually taken place. He would not give his consent to this, and death approached. The doctor asked him if he knew any thing of the boy who had thrown the ball, and he said he did, for he well remembered he was the son of the old man, whom he had killed some years before.—Verily, there is a God that judgeth in the earth.
Wishing you all grace, I remain,
Ruhamah.
LETTER XXXVI.
Achor’s Vale, February 16, 1819.
Miss Grummant.