Once, it was a Christmas night, he was reflecting on all the joy that was abroad in the world, and he thought if it would not be possible for him to pray. Then long-forgotten words returned to his lips, and he faltered out, "Our Father—which art in heaven!"—but there he stopped. "God is in heaven," thought he, "how can He condescend to hear the sigh that arises from the hell within my breast? No—no—it is but mocking Him for me to pray!"
Days and years had gone by since the prisoner had inhaled the breath of the fresh balmy air—had beheld the extended vault of heaven—or wandered in the bright warm sunshine; at length the spirit had exhausted the body. He lay ill and feeble, and death was near. Then was the narrow door of his dungeon opened, and he was removed to a more cheerful place—to a place where the blessed air and light were freely admitted, and where the voices of human beings were around him. But their compassion came too late. Earnestly did he entreat them to let him see a minister of the Gospel; and when one came, he poured out the misery of his soul to him. He listened with the deepest attention while the holy man discoursed about Him who, in his boundless love, shed his own blood to wash out the sins of mankind, and in whose name even the darkest and most guilty criminal might dare to raise his bloodstained hands in prayer. How consoling were not these precious words to him, "My God and my Saviour!" With what an earnest longing he waited to be permitted to participate in that solemn rite, which, by grace and faith, was to unite him to that Redeemer! And how he trembled lest the lamp of his mortal life should be extinguished before the first spark of that sacred flame was lighted, which was to be kindled for an endless eternity!
The time that his repentant spirit so thirsted for arrived. And when he had partaken of the holy communion, and tears of penitent sorrow had streamed over his burning cheeks, peace—long unknown—returned to his weary heart, and his gratitude found vent in thanksgivings and prayer.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, as he looked out of his open window, "it is spring, my friends—I feel that it is spring, beautiful spring!"
"Yes," replied the superintendent of the hospital, "it is spring; even the old tree by the wall is green—see here—as I passed it, I broke off this budding twig for you;" and he placed the little green branch in the hand of the dying man.
"Oh!" said he, with a melancholy smile and a tear in his eye, "that old, decayed, withered tree—can it put forth new leaves—fresh, green, sweetly scented as these? May I not then venture to hope that the Almighty may call forth a new life from me in another world? Oh! that such may be His will!"
And with the green bough—the proof of God's power and goodness in his hand, and with his Redeemer's promise on his lips, he passed to his everlasting doom, in the blessed hope that he also might touch the hem of his Saviour's garment, and hear these words of life: "Son! thy sins be forgiven thee!"
