Out of His Time.
by Harriet Annie Wilkins

One evening a short time since, our attention was attracted by the prolonged ringing of a bell. The given number of strokes had sounded, yet ring, ring, ring. Was it an alarm of fire? No other bell signalled an answer. Was it some danger to our city? No crowds were gathering. At length we questioned a passer by, and received for answer, "It is ringing because an Apprentice is out of his time." "Out of his time!"
We knew nothing of the boy, neither his name or home, but the waves of air told us something concerning him. We knew he had overcome difficulties, often had he been disheartened and dismayed, often had he heard the mocking laugh or coarse jest of his companions, at his imperfect workmanship, often heard the angry words over goods or tools spoiled through his ignorance or carelessness. He had risen on dark mornings when his neighbors, lads his own age, were snugly sleeping; he had toiled on glorious summer days when his indolent companions were resting under green trees, or plunging into the cool waters; he had done the rough work because he was "the boy." Yes, but there is another side to the picture. With courage renewed, with eyes and fingers becoming more and more accustomed to the handicrafts of his trade, every month has found him progressing, till to-night, as the still ringing bell tells us, he has overcome. His companions gather around him with boisterous mirth, and the "older hands" feel a certain pride in him, as wringing his hand they know he ranks among themselves, the means of an honest living at his disposal, one of God's great army of working men. A few hours passed and another bell resounded upon our ears. We listened, for that bell had a sad and solemn sound. Ah, another "Apprentice was out of his time." We knew something of how he had fought, not with rough iron, but with "the waves of this troublesome world." We knew how in every day life he strove to do his duty to his Lord and Master. Dismayed, how often? Discouraged, how frequently bearing the taunt, the sneer? But he too had overcome. His companions gather around him, but all mirth is hushed, tears fill their eyes, and choking words are whispered as they file round the casket, and look upon the calm dead face, that no more on earth will meet them with its wonted smile, and the pale hands that have done all their rough earthwork. His welcome we did not hear. Ah, it is well that the sound of harps and the silvery peals from the chiming bells of the city of God reach us not, or perchance we should "stand all the day idle." For are we not all entered Apprentices in this strange world of ours? Are we not all "serving our time?" How are we learning our trades? Are we likely to prove "workmen that need not be ashamed," or are we through fear or negligence hiding in the earth our Lord's money? Our indentures bear the blood-red seals of Calvary, our Covenant is "ordered in all things and sure." The time of our serving here is unknown to us, of the hour of our release knoweth no man. There have been some who "being made perfect in a short time, fullfilled for a long time." We have a long line of witnesses gone on before, but all drawing their life and courage from that Wonderful Man, the Redeemer of the world, the Carpenter of Galilee. He whose mysterious indentures were cancelled in the noon-day of His life. He who could stand among His sorrowing companions and say, "Father, I have finished the work which Thou gavest me to do." Oh, my fellow apprentices, how often are we tempted to leave our work unfinished. Do we not thus sometimes think, "I can never learn my trade for heaven here." We see one wasting his Master's goods, we see the tables of the money-changers in the temple of God, we hear our fellows arraigning the Master before their petty tribunals, we grow faint and weary, we have foes within and without. Doubt says, "The Master is feasting royally and forgets his poor apprentices." Courage, courage, my brothers, we are treading the path the saints have trod. This is but a state of preparation. We know not what work for the King we may have to do by-and-by; over how many cities of whose locality we at present know nothing. He may give us authority to which of the countless worlds in our Father's universe we may be sent on the King's message of love, to what spirits in prison we, in our spiritual life, may go to preach of mercy. If here permitted to be the servants of Christ, and through His merits attaining to that better country, may we not reasonably infer that we shall aid Him more and more, till the mediatorial work is ended. Let these thoughts encourage us amidst the cold and heat, the scorn and shame. Let us see to it that we do work the works of our Master. Let us often turn our eyes to those two grand rules of our workshop, "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you," our golden rule framed in the royal crimson of the King's authority; and that other silver lettered motto, framed in the clear, true blue of heaven, "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father, is to visit the widow and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." Let us imitate that brother workman of whom Whittier says:
"He gave up his life to others,
Himself to his brothers lending;
He saw the Lord in His suffering brothers,
And not in the clouds descending."
Soon, soon we shall be out of our time; but here the figure ends. The earthly apprentice, freed from his articles of apprenticeship, may serve any master, the heavenly apprentice asks but one. Oh, Jesus, Master, Thou Saviour of our race, have mercy upon us, grant us so to serve Thee in time, that our earthly labours ended, we may hear Thee say, "Well done good and faithful servant," while the pure and beautiful angels shall rehearse to each other, "Rejoice, another apprentice is out of his time."