104. Conclusion.

Conclusion. And now, readers, the Bible History of Prayer is before you. And I ask, is there one example noticed in these pages, or to be found in the Bible itself, of sincere, humble, importunate prayer, which was not answered? Or which was not answered favorably? Is there, among the thousand pages of that Book, which speaks of God’s condescending mercy to man, one intimation that praying breath ever was, or ever will be, spent in vain? Our History begins with the race, and stretches through a period of more than four thousand years; and, while the examples are numerous, and the exhortations and encouragements to this duty are quite as numerous, there is not one solitary intimation that the prayer of a righteous man was ever rejected. Good men, in a few instances, have been forbidden to pray; but it was in reference to such as had filled up the measure of their iniquities, and for whose recovery to obedience and holiness no further means could consistently be used.

But, to you, a throne of grace presents itself; and, before it, you are invited to prostrate yourselves, and to seek pardon, mercy, eternal life, at the hands of a gracious God. More than this: you may ask not only for the life to come, but for the life that now is—every blessing which will be of true and permanent value to you.

Before concluding, the author wishes the privilege of briefly addressing a few classes more specifically, and of impressing upon them the importance of an exercise, which may result in blessings of eternal and incomprehensible value.

There is the young man, whom he would attract, if possible, to intercourse and communion with God. And yet, he is aware, that, of all persons, young men are probably most averse to prayer. In the flush of health—amid the buoyancy of youthful hopes—on the stream of earthly pleasure, gliding smoothly and joyfully, they, least of all, feel the necessity of such a resort. Yet, for the reason that this necessity is so little felt, the influences and blessings which result from prayer are the more important. Would that young man, who, in a moment of temptation, put his hand into the money-drawer of his employer, have done so unworthy a deed, had he, that morning, prayed? Would he have gone forth to the duelling-ground, intent on taking the life of a fellow-mortal, and running the hazard of pouring anguish into the bosom of a fond mother and beloved sisters, besides rushing unbidden into the presence of a holy God, had he first bowed, in humility, at the footstool of sovereign mercy? Would he have entered the “house” which “inclineth unto death,” or communed with the “stranger,” whose “paths incline unto the dead,” had he listened to the monitory voice of wisdom, given in answer to prayer? “None that go in to her, return again; neither take they hold of the paths of life!” In short, what youth would venture to the theatre—to the gambling retreat—or to the house of madness and inebriation—there laying, perhaps, in a single night, the foundation of ruined health and blasted reputation, had he sought the paternal care, and restraining influence, of a Heavenly Father? Ah me, these are questions which are too often put by young men only when the die is cast!—when the work of ruin is accomplished! But why may not the voice of wisdom be heard in season? Why not, my young friends, pursue a course which will effectually secure you against such temptations?—against the wish to frequent such haunts as have led thousands—as firm and cautious as you are—to all the wretchedness of blighted prospects here, and sealed their doom for a long eternity hereafter? The writer is acquainted with one who commenced a life of prayer at an early age. Has he lived to regret it? So far from this, that now, when the shades of autumn begin to thicken around him, if on one habit he looks with approbation, it is this. If, from one duty of life performed—though with many imperfections—he anticipates peace and joy, in declining years, it is that of prayer. One purpose of his life, the Christian poet has beautifully expressed: In every joy that crowns my days— In every pain I bear My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer.

And, to the young man, he can recommend no safer line of conduct; and from none, he is sure, will flow such pure and perennial joy. “The prayer of faith,” says Bishop Porteus, “moves the hand of Him that moveth all things.” With such a power placed at our disposal, who needs to be miserable here? Who may not be happy hereafter? In urging the habit of prayer upon the youthful female, the writer feels, that, to insure success, there are fewer obstacles to remove, while there are more powerful auxiliaries to aid. Her heart may, indeed, be equally destitute of the love of God; but it is usually less callous, having been less exposed to temptation, and less conversant with the various forms of vice. Her affections are more easily moved; her sensibilities more tender and delicate; her apprehensions of evil more real; and her need of care and protection more urgent. Woman early wishes for a friend—a shield—a protector; and it is truly pleasant to reflect, that so many do early make God their Father and Friend, and grow up in the daily practice of prayer and communion with him. But, on the other hand, it is matter of painful regret, that even a single one should decline the proffered guardianship of a Being who is better able than all others to provide for them in times of misfortune and adversity. Few sights are so painful as an aged female who has never consecrated her heart to God, and who has no hour in which to retire and hold converse with things “unseen and eternal.” On the other hand, what object more lovely than a young female, bending in all the ardor of her affection, and with the purity of a sanctified heart, before the throne of God—first yielding her entire self to Him, and then imploring blessings upon the earthly objects of her love and endearment. One such child in a family is of greater value than scores of graceless sons and daughters; and to the eye which appreciates moral loveliness, is of greater beauty than one who, without her disposition, sparkles with the gems of Golkonda.

Let us take an example: and let those whom the writer is addressing, gather what her habits were who set the example. That example is worthy of imitation, and may well be extended to the more ordinary spheres of action, in which they are called to move. The female in question was that day to become a bride. A party of interested friends had early assembled at the bridal mansion, to prepare the drawing-room with appropriate decorations for the approaching happy hour. The pleasant service done, they retired, happy in contributing to the joy of an occasion which, while it would take from them one whom they loved, would unite that one to the object of her highest earthly regard.

All had retired from the lovely spot. But there was one friend—a cousin—who, a short time after, stole gently back, to look once more at the varied beauty of the room, and to indulge by herself the hopes and anticipations of an affectionate heart, for the future happiness of her friend. She gently opened the door, and was about to enter, when she noticed the sofa was wheeled round to the precise spot where, that evening, the happy pair were to exchange their solemn vows; and there the lovely bride was kneeling, so absorbed in her own solemn thoughts, that the entrance of her friend was unnoticed. The friend stood, for a moment, gazing in rapt admiration at the scene. She longed gently to approach, and kneel by her side; but the occasion was too sacred to admit of social union, and she retired. And what, so solemn and absorbing, was occupying the thoughts of this happy being? Was it the anticipations of earthly felicity that had brought her there? Nothing of the kind! Delighted she might have been—and justly was. But she had one duty to perform—a high and holy duty— ere she plighted her vows to the object of her earthly affections. There, in that spot, where she would soon stand and surrender her earthly all to her husband, she would, in solemn and devout prayer, first consecrate herself to the Lord. The prior consecration was due to Him.

I know not of an earthly scene more lovely, or of an immortal being, in similar circumstances, in an attitude more becoming. And I am sure, that, if her intended husband had himself the love of God reigning in his heart, and could he have seen her there—whatever he might have thought of her before—his love would have been more pure and intense.

What a beautiful example for the imitation of every youthful female! Not merely when about to be led to the hymnal altar; but at other times, and on occasions, and in circumstances more common. That heart of yours, my young friend, belongs to God; that eye should be directed to His glories, as they shine forth from His word and works; and that tongue should daily be employed in prayer and praise. I know not the subsequent history of that lovely bride—the beautiful incident in whose life I have related—but I am sure she never repented of that prayer—of that dedication of herself to God on the morning of her espousals. I know not that she escaped sorrow—for earthly sorrow is sometimes the lot of the friends of God—but I know he would not forget the kindness of her youth. He would not forsake her. She might bury husband—children—friends; she might suffer from sickness—poverty—persecution; but, in no hour, would her Heavenly Father forsake her; he would guide her by his counsel, and afterwards receive her to glory. Youthful females! would you lay the foundation of future peace—would you provide against the reverses of fortune—would you have a Friend and Protector through this world of vicissitude—would you have consolation in the darkest night of adversity which may set in upon you; and, more than all, would you, at length, be presented faultless before the presence of the Divine Glory, with exceeding joy?—consecrate yourselves to God, and live thereafter a life of prayer.

There is a third class, whose attention to the duty of prayer would seem so natural, as to render any observations, at least by way of urgency, entirely superfluous. We refer to parents.

“The world,” says a writer, “does not furnish a single prospect so beautiful, so lovely, to the eye of virtuous contemplation, as a family assembled in the morning for their affectionate devotions: combining the two most charming among all the exercises of the human heart—piety to God, their common Parent, and tenderness to each other. No priest, no minister, is so venerable as a father. No congregation so dear and tenderly beloved as a wife and children; and no oblations are offered with the same union, interest, and delight, as those of a pious and affectionate household.” Nor can it be without its benign influence upon children who are not pious. They may not, indeed, be sensibly impressed at the time; they may leave the parental roof for other residences and other employments; but they will not be likely to lose the recollection of the altar at home. No! Should they wander to the ends of the earth; should they settle in some wild of the far-distant West, or bend their course to the furthest East, the image of a father, bowing, bending at the throne of grace, will recur to their thoughts; his tears, his devout aspirations for the welfare of their souls, can scarcely fail to lead them to efforts for their own salvation. The parent, who humbly, daily, and fervently prays in his family, has reason to anticipate the blessing of God upon his children. But he who neglects so obvious a duty, and such a means of salvation, ought not to pretend that he has any real love for them. What reason has he to hope that his offspring will pursue the path of true wisdom when he neglects it?—Or, will they invoke the favor and grace of God upon themselves, when he does not do it for them?

But, family prayer is not the only duty of the parent; to that, he should add, daily, fervent and importunate prayer in the closet. There may be parents who satisfy themselves with the former; but, generally, those who maintain family religion, will, also, it is believed, be true to their secret devotions. For his personal holiness and growth in grace—for his comfort in communion with God—secret prayer is indispensable. Nor will the parent, who thus prizes the privilege for himself, think less of it in reference to his children. In the solitude and secrecy of his chamber, he can pour out his heart with a fullness and fervor which might seem extravagant in the family. Has he anxieties—fears—sorrows?—He can pour them into a bosom which has higher, and more sympathizing parental feelings than his own. There he may wrestle—agonize;—there, with a holy pathos, such as finds birth only in the parental heart, and is uttered only by parental lips, he may cast his children on the Lord, and claim for them the blessings guaranteed in that covenant which can never fail.

Instances are not wanting, in more modern times, of the efficacy of prayer for children by parents. Two are, at this moment, before the writer: The daughter of a pious father and mother, in Philadelphia, in opposition to their wishes, accepted an invitation to attend a ball, some twenty miles in the country. Alive to her danger, thus at a distance from them, and under the influence of ungodly companions, they determined to spend the night in prayer on her behalf. On the termination of the festivities, she returned to her lodgings, and retired to rest. But God met her in the slumbers of the night. From a dream, full of horror, she awoke, agitated and alarmed. The prospect of a miserable eternity was presented to her, and, during her broken slumbers, so pressed upon her, that, at length, her sleep was wholly interrupted. Strong conviction of sin now succeeded thoughtless happiness; and, early in the morning, she took the stage, and returned home. Here she soon experienced a happy change, and united with her parents in praising the Lord for redeeming mercy. The second instance was, perhaps, still more remarkable. A gentleman of Boston, had an impenitent son in Vermont, for whose salvation he felt extremely anxious; and, calling on some brethren of the Church, made known to them his feelings, and requested them to go with him, and pray that his son might be converted to God. Not long after, the son knocked at his father’s door. The father opened the door; and the son, on seeing him, exclaimed, weeping, “I have come to see you, that you might rejoice with me for what the Lord hath done for my soul.” His father inquired at what time his mind was first arrested. He replied, on such an evening, about eight o’clock. His father remembered that it was the same time at which he and his brethren were engaged in prayer for his son (Christian Spectator, vol. iv. p. 273). Are such instances rare? But would they be rare, were parents as faithful and as earnest as the interests of their children demand?—Or, as a kind and covenant-keeping God permits and encourages? Why, if prayer be ever answered, may it not, at least in some instances, be answered immediately?

Need it here be added, that Christians should pray? That question ought not, perhaps, even to be raised. A Christian not pray! He that never prays, is not and cannot be a Christian; nor has he more than a miserable foundation for a hope who does not pray habitually. The grand difference between Christians is, doubtless, to be traced to prayer. I will not say to the amount of time spent in this service; although this is probably true; but to the fidelity with which the duty is performed. The most eminent saints, probably, pray the most; certainly, with the most faith, fervor, and importunity. But these are not all. There is one truth connected with prayer, the importance of which language can scarcely express, and which the author would, if possible, engrave oil the tablet of every Christian’s heart. That if he would be heard and answered, he must live in consistency with his supplications. This is a fundamental truth, which the word of God and all experience confirm. And this great truth, the author would stereotype on this concluding page, for it is cardinal—it is vital—we must act consistently with our supplications.

Thus living, and thus acting, children of God, and only by so living and so acting, will you find verified, in your own happy and delightful experience, that beautiful declaration o* the poet, with a recital of which, the author began these pages, and with a repetition of which, he concludes them:

Prayer, ardent, opens heaven; lets down a stream Of glory on the consecrated hour Of man, in audience with the Deity. THE END.