“Yes, massa,” said he, “he can make me to be clean in heart, and of a right Spirit; he can purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; he can wash me, and I shall be whiter dan snow.”
“May God give you these blessings, and confirm you in every good gift!”
I was much pleased with the affectionate manner in which he spoke of his parents, from whom he had been stolen in his childhood; and his wishes that God might direct them by some means to the knowledge of the Saviour.
“Who knows,” I said, “but some of these ships may be carrying a missionary to the country where they live, to declare the good news of salvation to your countrymen,
and to your own dear parents in particular, if they are yet alive!”
“Oh, my dear fader and moder! My dear gracious Saviour,” exclaimed he, leaping from the ground as he spoke, “if dou wilt but save deir souls, and tell dem what dou hast done for sinner; but—”
He stopped, and seemed much affected.
“My friend,” said I, “I will now pray with you, for your own soul, and for those of your parents also.”
“Do, massa; dat is very good and kind: do pray for poor Negro souls here and everywhere.”
This was a new and solemn “house of prayer.” The sea-sand was our floor, the heavens were our roof, the cliffs, the rocks, the hills, and the waves, formed the walls of our chamber. It was not, indeed, a “place where prayer was wont to be made;” but for this once it became a hallowed spot: it will by me ever be remembered as such. The presence of God was there. I prayed: the Negro wept. His heart was full. I felt with him, and could not but weep likewise.