The Bolivar bulletin. (Bolivar, Tenn.) 1888-1946, 1895-07-12
Is sealed. and world without end

anathemas of an incensed God. Irally
| you to besiegement of the gates of
hell. We want in this besieging host
no soft sentimentallists, but men who
are willing to take and give hard
knocks. The gates of GAIA were car
ried off; the gates of Thebes were bat
tered down; the gates of Babylon were
destroyed, and the gates of hell are
| going to be Frustrated.
The Christianized printing press will
be rolled up as the chief battering
ram. Then there will be long Gst of
aroused pulpits. which shall be a'ssail-
ing fortresses, and Gods red not truth
shall be the flying ammunition of the
contest; and the sappers and the miners
will lay the train under these founda-
| tions of sin, and at just the right time
God, who leads on the fray, will cry:
Down with the gatesr' anG the ex-
plosion beneath will be answered by
all the trumpets of God on high, cele-
brating universal victory.
But there may be one wandeper that
would like to have kind word calling
homeward. l have told you that So
ciety has no mercy. Did hint, at an
earlier point in this subject. that God
will have mercy upon any vanderer
who would like to come back to the
heart of infinite love?
A cold Christmas night in farm
house. Father comes in from the
barn, knocks the snow from his
shoes, and sits down by the fire. The
mother sits at the stand knitting. She
says to him: "Do you RENE mber it is
the anniversary tonight" The father
is angered. He never wants any allu-
sion to the fact that one had gone
away, and the mere suggestion that it
was the anniversary of that sad event
made him quite rough, although the
tears ran down his cheeks. The old
house dog, that had played with the
waEderer when she was a child, comes
up and puts his head on the old mans
knees, but he roughly repulses the dog.
He wants nothing to remind him of
the anniversary day.
cold winter night IN city church.
It is Christmas night. They have been
decorating the sanctuary. A lost wan
derer of the street, with thin shawl
about her. attracted by the warmth
and light. comes in and sits near the
preaching of Him who was wounded
for our transgressions and bruised for
our iniquities, and the poor soul by the
door said: "Why, that must mean me;
mercy for the chief of sinners; bruised
for our iniquities; wounded for our
transgr essions.
The music that night in the sanct-
nary brought back the old hymn.
which she used to sing when, with IA
Their and mother, she worshiped God in
the village church. The service over,
the minister went down the aisle. She
said to him: Were those words for
me? Wounded for our transgressions.'
was that for me?'' The man of God
understood her not. He knew not how
to comfort a shipwreclled soul, and he
passed on and i've passed out The poor
wanderer followed into the street.
What are YOU doing here, Meg?"
said the police. "What are you doing
here to-night% ooh" she replied, II
was in to warm myself" and then the
rafting cough came, and she held to
the railing until the paroxysm was
over. She passed on down the street,
falling from exlraustiop; recovering
herself again, until after awhile she
reached tho outskirts of the city,
and passed on into the country
road. It seemed so familiar; she
kept on the road, and she
saw in the distance a, light in the win
dow. Ali that light had been gleam-
ing there every night since she went
away. On that conntry road she
passed until she came to the garden
gate. She opened it and passed up the
path where she played in childhood.
She came to the steps and looked in
at the fire on the hearth. Then
she put her fingers to the latch. Oh,
if that door had been locked
she would have persisted on the
threshold, for she was near to deathi
But that door had not been locked
since the time she went. She pushed
open the door. She went in and lay
down on the hearth by the fire. This
old house dog growbed as he saw her
enter, but there was something in the
voice he recognized, and he frisked
about her until he almost pushed her
down in his joy.
In the morning the mother came
down, and she saw bundle of rags on
the hearth: but when the face was up
lifted, she knew it, and it was no more
old Meg of the street Throwing her
arms around the returned prodigal, she
cried, "Oh, Maggiew The child
threw her arms around her mothers
neck and said: ''Oh, mother!" and
while they were embraced a rugged
form lowered above them. 1t was the
father. The severity all gone out of
his face, he stopped and took her up
tenderly and carried her to mothers
room and laid her down on mother'al
bed, for she was dying. Then the lost
one, looking up into her mothers face,
said: "'WOunded for our transgres-
sions, and bruised for our iniquitiesp
Mother, do you Think that means me?'
"Oh, yes, my darling said the mother.
''If mother is so glad to get you back,
don't you think God is glad to get you
back?"
And there she lay dying, and all
their dreams and all their prayers
were filed with the words: Wounded
for our transgressions, and bruised for
our inicuities, until, just before the mo-
ment of her departure, her face lighted
up, showing the pardon of God had
dropped upon her soul. And there she
slept away on the bosom of pardon
ing Jesus. So the Lord took back one
whom the world rejected.
The Rose-Bag on the Bureau.
o. - a. = ,,,oe+ da1iObtfu1 aocoSsoi