Yet,
in that week, what a volume might be written, of deep, intense
thought and feeling, of fervent prayer and supplication, and tearful,
childlike submission to the divine will. Might be written did I say?
Is it not written--even in the book of God's remembrance? Neither sigh
or tear were unnoticed, or prayer unheard, by that God who careth for
us, and numbereth the very hairs of our heads. How often the prayer
ascended from the lips of the dying man, "O my Father, help me in this
my extremity," and it was indeed his hour of extreme necessity, for he
was wrestling with his last enemy.
A smile sat upon his countenance, even while struggling for that frail
life that was so soon to end, and it is now very evident to those
that were in attendance upon him, that he was more fully aware of his
situation than they. Every arrangement and every observation plainly
shows now that he had little, if any hope of recovery.
But still the attending physician spoke very encouragingly to him, and
to others, and so we hoped and believed he would yet be well.
He was grateful for every attention. Ere the disease (which was
pneumonia) assumed its most fearful aspect; a daughter, who was
watching by the bed, hearing him whisper, thought he was addressing
her; but bending over the pillow, she heard him say,
"Oh, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me."
Then raising his clasped hands, said, fervently, "Nevertheless, not my
will, but thine be done.
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