Yes, this was the man--a man after his own heart--the comrade
with whom one could work shoulder to shoulder and never know
fatigue--the unfailing friend whom one dared not flatter or slobber
over, but the grip of whose hand gave self-respect and the glance of
whose eyes swept the evil out of one's breast. And this was God
too--the only God that men can worship without fear; Whose power is so
great that it makes one's head split to think of, and Whose love is
greater than His power.
And the voice of Christ seemed to speak to him, not by the channel of
crudely imagined words, but in a transcendent joy that was sent
thrilling through and through him.
"Then I need not despair," he said to himself. "That was the voice of
Christ telling me to hope."
He strolled on with bowed head, and remembered the night when he sat
in Mr. Osborn's little room, staring at the carpenter's bench, and
struggling between belief and doubt. He had said: "I want to be saved.
I want the day when you can tell me I have gained everlasting
salvation." And Mr. Osborn had answered him: "The day will come; but
it will not be my voice that tells you."
It was dark, but he did not mind the darkness. He walked on, not
knowing where he was going, and time passed without his thinking Of
the lateness of the hour.
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