Cripple Tom and his Texts part two

But love is quick to discover ways of serving its object, and so, looking to God for guidance and strength, the little helpless cripple said:-

"It won't do to keep all this blessed news to myself"; so, he thought and thought, until at last a simple work was decided on for the Master. His bed stood close by the window sill, which was low, and somehow he got a pencil and paper, and wrote out different texts, which he would fold, pray over, and then drop into the noisy street below, directed-

"To the PASSER BY - please read."

He hoped that by this means someone might hear of Jesus and His salvation. Generally his texts were simple gospel ones, but sometimes he wrote a text, which had been given him by the Lord for his own soul. This service of love, faithfully rendered, went on for some weeks, when one evening he heard a strange footstep, and immediately afterwards a tall, well-dressed gentleman entered the room and took his seat by the lad’s bedside. “So you are the lad, who drops texts from the window, are you?” he asked kindly.

“Yes” said Tom, brightening up. “Have yer heard as someone has got hold of one?”

“Plenty, lad, plenty! I picked up one last evening, and God blessed it to my soul. I have been a Christian for some years, but lately I got cold in soul, and God has used your text, and spoke to me by it.”

“I can believe in God’s Word doing anything, sir,” said the lad humbly.

“And I come,” said the gentleman, “to thank you personally.” Not me, sir! I only does the writin’; He does the blessin’.” And are you happy in this work for Christ?” said the visitor.

“Couldn’t be happier, sir. I don’t think nothin’ of the pain in me back, for shan’t I be glad when I sees Him, to tell Him that, as soon as I knowed about Him and His great love, I did all as I could to serve Him? I suppose you get lots of chances, don’t you sir?”

“Ah, lad, but I have neglected them; but, God helping me, I mean to begin afresh. At home in the country I have a sick lad dying. I came to town on pressing business. When I kissed him goodbye, he said, ‘Father, I wish I had done some work for Jesus’; and the words stuck me all day long, and the next day too, until evening when I was passing down this street your text fell on my hat. I opened it and read, ‘I must work the works of Him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.’ (John 9:4) It seemed like a command from heaven.”

Tears of joy were rolling down the lad’s face. “It’s too much sir,” he said, “Altogether too much.”

“Tell me how you managed to get the paper to start with, my lad.” “That warn’t hard, sir. I jest had a talk with granny, and offered to give up my ha’porth of milk she gives me most days, if she would buy me paper instead. You know, sir, I can’t last long. The parish doctor says a few months of cold weather may finish me off, and a drop of milk ain’t much to give up for my blessed Jesus. Are people happy as have lots to give Him, sir?”

The visitor sighed. “Ah, lad, you are a great deal happier in the wretched room, making sacrifices for Jesus, than thousands who profess to belong to Him, and who have time, talents, and money, and yield little or nothing to Him.”

“THEY DON’T KNOW HIM, SIR.

Knowin’ is lovin’, and lovin’ and tryin’ to please Him is doin’. It ain’t love without.” 
“You are right, Tom.”

(to be continued)