Читать книгу Prisons and Prayer; Or, a Labor of Love - Elizabeth Ryder Wheaton - Страница 44
CHAPTER VIII.
Incidents in My Prison Work
DYING IN PRISON
ОглавлениеOne day as I was alone in a gloomy prison a poor boy called to me and said, "Write to my mother, but don't tell her where you found me. Please don't tell her, for it would kill her. She never could live and know her boy was in prison." On the dirty floor, lying on a pile of still dirtier straw I found this poor prison boy dying. I fell on my knees and poured out my heart to God in his behalf.
"That head had been pillowed on tenderest breast,
That form had been wept o'er, those lips had been pressed,
That soul had been prayed for in tones sweet and mild;
For her sake deal gently with some mother's child."
Do not tell me that it does not pay to labor and pray with these dear lost ones. For if I can be the means of rescuing but one soul from eternal punishment, thank God, it pays me.
