  The Cross is the triumphant symbol of a militant and puissant Christianity. It tells of “love divine, all loves excelling.” It sustains hope in the final victory of good. It establishes faith in the persistent reality of truth. The Gospel of the Cross proclaims redemption from sin, reconciliation with God, realization of goodwill to all people. There is absolutely nothing else to equal the appeal of the Cross in its power to produce the most desirable changes in the individual and in society. Wherever it has been preached with the conviction of experience and the constraint of passion, the Holy Christ has won trophies in lives recovered from the waste of sin, renewed by the power of grace, enriched by the practices of purity and peace. Indeed, the only cure for our distracted age is found in the Atoning Christ. This is endorsed by the voices of redeemed multitudes of every age and land. The testimony from life is conclusive. It holds us by a resolute determination to announce its message of pardon and joy to everyone. In the words of John Oxenham, “Love, with the lifted hands and thorn-crowned head; Still conquers death, though life itself be fled,— His Cross still stands! Yes,—Love triumphant stands, and stands for more, In our great need, than e’er it stood before! His Cross still stands!” The Cross makes a universal appeal, as in this incident related by Miss Margaret Sangster All Wanted the Same Song“I was in a radio studio, the other night, listening to the broadcast of a program. Naturally I was interested. Interested in what the performers did and how they were handled and the precision with which the timing was accomplished. But the one thing that interested me more than the actual happenings in the studio, was something quite apart from the especial broadcast that was taking place. For, as I sat there, I was conscious of a great flurry going on in an outer office. I could see, as I sat there, a constant stream of messenger boys—and I “And so the moment that the broadcast was over, I went into that outer office and began to ask questions. ‘Why the excitement?’ I asked of a pretty stenographer. ‘I’ve never seen such a bustling about.’ The girl smiled as she replied: ‘A very popular singer is going to broadcast tonight,’ she told me, ‘and people are sending in requests that he sing their favorite song. Curiously enough, with hardly an exception, it’s the same song!’ “‘What song is it?’ I asked. And I was both amazed and stirred to learn that the radio audience was asking for one of the splendid old revival hymns—‘The Old Rugged Cross!’” “On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, The emblem of suff’ring and shame; And I love that old cross where the dearest and best For a world of lost sinners was slain.” Thomas D. Whittles tells this story in his book, The Parish of the Pines, Gospel Music in the Lumber CampsAn upturned barrel serves for pulpit, and a horse blanket, bearing the manufacturer’s name in large letters, is the embroidered altar cloth. No Genevan gown lends grace to the minister, but coatless he stands—a shirt-sleeved messenger of God. The opening of a service conducted by Frank Higgins, the Sky Pilot, is thus described: “‘Sing No. 31, boys; it’s easy and it’s a good one. Let her go!’ “Alas! and did my Saviour bleed? And did my Sovereign die?” “The hymn is old and the boys welcome it lustily. The music lacks in sweetness: in volume it abounds. “‘You can do better. Hit it harder on the next verse.’ “They do; they shout it forth in full voice, pleased with the song, glad for the privilege of singing. Then the chorus: ‘At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light,’ shakes the bunkhouse and wanders over the far reaches of the night-bound forest. In our fashionable churches, trained voices blend in superb harmony; but this is the music of songless lives.” However different may be our views on many questions of religion, most of us agree that The Cross RemainsMatthew Arnold was visiting his brother-in-law, Mr. Cropper, and went with him to a service at Seton Park Church, Liverpool, England. The minister, Dr. John Watson (“Ian Maclaren”), preached on “The Shadow of the Cross,” and the congregation afterwards sang the familiar hymn: “When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of Glory died.” At lunch that day Mr. Arnold referred to the hymn, which he said he considered the finest in the English language. Appreciative reference was also made to the sermon; and the poet mentioned especially an illustration which the preacher had drawn from a Riviera earthquake. “In one village,” said Dr. Watson, “the huge crucifix above the altar, with a part of the chancel, remained unshaken amid the ruins, and round the cross the people sheltered.” “Yes,” remarked Arnold in speaking of this, “the cross remains, and in the straits of the soul makes its ancient appeal.” This recalls an incident mentioned in a lecture, Never does the Cross fail men in their need; but “His cross like a far-seen beacon stands In the midst of a world of sin; And stretched out are His bleeding hands To gather the wanderers in.” The truth of reliance upon the Christ of the Cross is well brought out in “Rock of Ages”The original title of this hymn was “A Living and Dying Prayer for the Holiest Believer in the World.” But, as a matter of fact, the hymn is a favorite of the best saint and the worst sinner. It can be used appropriately in every condition of life. In a shipwreck off the Bay of Biscay, the last man who left the ship said he heard the passengers singing, “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!” The glory of the Cross found an impressive testimony in Henry Drummond’s Hymn on His Last SundayDeath called the brilliant Henry Drummond hence while he was still in the prime of life. On the afternoon of the last Sunday he spent on earth this noble Scotchman, with his scientific mind and evangelical spirit, heard his friend, Dr. Barbour, play to him the music of the hymn, “Art Thou Weary, Art Thou Languid?” and other hymn tunes. There was no response. Then he tried the old Scots melody of “Martyrdom,” to which Drummond beat time with his hand, and joined in the words: “I’m not ashamed to own my Lord, Or to defend His cause; Maintain the honor of His word, The glory of His cross.” When they finished singing this hymn by Isaac Watts, Drummond said, “There’s nothing to beat that, Hugh.” The following Thursday he passed to greet his Lord of whom he had been a radiant follower. The everlasting Gospel of the Cross is assuredly The Only Word for Discord and DistressHow truly it meets our needs is finely suggested in one of the best hymns, “My Faith Looks Up to Thee.” It was written by Dr. Ray Palmer at the age of twenty-two while still a theological student, suffering from poor health, laboring under many discouragements and realizing that God was his only help. During the Civil War some soldiers met in a tent for prayer before a great battle; they decided to draw up and sign a paper, expressing their trust in that stern hour. One of the men knew this hymn and he wrote it out and each man signed his name. Only one of them lived through the battle to tell of this death covenant and to send the precious document to the loved ones of those who fell. Well might each of them have prayed: “My faith looks up to Thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary, Saviour divine! Now hear me while I pray, Take all my guilt away, O let me from this day Be wholly Thine!” The voice of the true Christian is the same regardless What Frances Wanted SungFrances Phillips, a young girl of Alaska, was the first pupil to graduate in the eighth grade in the Training School at Sitka. Soon afterwards she married a young man named Sam Johnson. Both were Christians. Frances died in 1924, a few days after the death of her little son. Dr. Samuel Hall Young tells us that he had been going to see her daily for a week when, on Sunday morning, word was brought that she was dying. “The little church was not far distant, and Frances sent word to open the doors and windows and to sing: ‘My hope is built on nothing less Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.’ “The dying woman joined feebly, with an ecstatic smile on her wan face and soon passed away. Before her death she had started a subscription in Angoon to build a new church. Sam and his brothers took up this work, and a beautiful little building called ‘The Frances Johnson Memorial Church’ was erected, almost entirely by the Indians.” |
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