Here is a wonderful story, its setting is in London some 100 years ago, but the witness the story carries is still a blessing. (editor)

In one of the deplorably miserable East London homes, in a dark, wretched room at the top of a house, lay a crippled boy. He had lain there for over two years, greatly neglected and comparatively unknown. When quite young his parents had died, leaving him to the mercy of an aged relative he called Granny.

Born a cripple, he had always been a sufferer; but as long as he was able, he had swept a crossing on his crutches, or gone on short errands to earn a few pence. Soon after his parent’s death, the boy had to take to his bed. Very ungraciously, the old woman allowed him to occupy the top room in her house, which he never left again.

His mother had taught him to read and write, and sometimes, on a snowy night, the boy had crept into the mission hall just to keep warm. Numb with cold and weary of body, he took little heed of what he heard on those nights; but lying alone day after day there came into his mind the memory of it, and by degrees he was possessed with a great longing to learn more about the things of God, and to have a Bible of his own. He knew that it was from a Bible that the speakers had gathered their knowledge, and that was all. So, summing up the courage, he one day consulted Granny about it. His only encouragement in that direction was an ironical laugh, “Bibles weren’t in her line! What did a lad like him want with Bibles?” So the matter dropped for a time, but the lad’s desire to possess one did not grow less.

One day, however, up the creaking stairs came noisy, boisterous Jack Lee, the only friend the cripple had in the world. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Got a new box. Off north tomorrow! Come to say good-bye, Tom.”, he cried, all excitement, seating himself on the bed, and wiping the perspiration from his brow. “But I’ve got a real beauty present for you, my lad,” taking from his pocket something wrapped in a greasy bit of brown paper.

Tom raised himself on his elbows, not at all gladdened by the news he had heard, “A bright new shilling for you, Tom. And you’re not to spend it until you want suffin real particular.”

“Oh, Jack, you are good, but I want something now very, very particular.”

“Yer do? What’s he?”

“I want a Bible.”

“A Bible! Well, I never! Who ever heard of a poor lad spending all that on a Bible, when I had to scrape for months to save it in coppers.”

“Don’t be angry, dear Jack”, cried the crippled boy, “you’re going a lonelier than ever, and oh, I do so want a Bible. Please get it Jack — now — this very evening at Fisher’s, before the shop closes. Granny never would; she’d spend it on gin, if I let it get into her hands.”

“What can you want with a Bible, Tom? Only scholars understands them there things,” he answered rather crossly.

“Maybe so, Jack, but I’m hankering after one, for I must find out if those folks in that mission hall you and I sometimes used to go to, told true about someone called Jesus. Let it be your parting gift, Jack, and you will make me so glad.”

“Very well, lad, then I’ll go but I know nought about Bible buying.”

“Fisher has them at a shilling, for I saw them marked in a window when I used to go by. Quick, Jack, or the shop will be closed!”

Jack complied very ungraciously, and descended the stairs less rapidly than he had mounted them. He got over his disappointed when he returned with a beautiful shilling Bible. “Fisher said I couldn’t leave you a better friend, Tom, and he said the shilling couldn’t be ‘vested better; and says he: It may be worth a thousand pounds to the lad!’ So it ‘pears there’s suffin we ought to know about.”

Tom’s joy and gratitude were unbounded. “I know it, Jack. I know it,” hugging the book to his breast. “I’m happy now. Oh, how kind you were to save the shilling!”

The lads never met again; but if the honest errand boy could have known what a precious treasure that Holy Book became to his friend, he would have been amply rewarded for the sacrifice he had made to save the shilling. After a month’s hard reading, Cripple Tom knew more about his Bible than many who had professed to study it for many years. He learned the way of salvation, his only teacher being the Holy Spirit; he learned also that obedience to God’s will meant helping to save others.

“It won’t do to keep all this blessed news to myself”, he said; so he thought and thought, until at last a simple but very beautiful work was decided on for the Master. His bed stood close by the windowsill, which was low, and somehow he got a pencil and paper, and wrote out different texts, and then dropped them into the noisy streets below.

To the Passer-by — Please Read

He hoped by this means someone might hear of Jesus and His salvation. This service of love, faithfully rendered, went on for some weeks, when one evening he heard a strange footstep and immediately afterwards a tall, well-dressed gentleman entered the room and took his seat by the lad’s side.

“So you are the lad who drops texts from the window, are you?” he asked kindly.

“Yes,” Tom said, brightening up. Have yer heard that someone’s got hold on one?”

“Plenty, lad, plenty! Would you believe it if I told you that I picked one up last evening, and God blessed it to my soul!”

“I can believe in God’s word doing anything, sir,” said the lad humbly.

“And I am come,” said the gentleman, “to thank you personally.”

“Not me, sir. I only done the writin’. He does the blessin’!”

“And you are happy in this work for Christ?” asked the visitor.

“Couldn’t be happier, sir. I don’t think nothing of the pain in my back, for shan’t I be glad when I see Him, to tell Him that as soon as I knowed about Him, I did all I could to serve Him? I suppose you get a lot of chances, don’t yer, sir?”

“Ah, lad, but I have neglected them, but God helping me, I mean to begin afresh. At home in the country I have a sick boy dying. I had to come to town on pressing business. When I kissed him goodbye, he said, ‘Father, I wished I had done some work for Jesus. I can not bear to meet Him empty handed,’ and the words stuck with me all day long, and the next day, too, until the evening when I was passing down the street your little paper fell on my hat. I opened it and read, ‘I must work the works of Him that sent Me, while it is day; the night cometh, when no man can work.” (John 9:4) It seemed like a command from heaven. It startled me and brought me to my knees that night, and I could not sleep until I could sing:

“Oh, the cleansing blood has reached me! Glory, glory to the lamb!”

“I have professed to be a Christian for twenty-two years, my lad, and when I made inquiries and found out who dropped these texts into the street, and why it was done, it so shamed and humbled me that I determined to go home and work for the Master that you are serving so faithfully.”

Tears of joy were rolling down the boy’s face. “It’s too much, sir,” he said, “altogether too much.”

“Tell me how you managed to get the paper to start it, my lad?”

“That weren’t hard, sir. I just had a talk with Granny, and offered to give up my ha’porth of milk she gives me most days if she would buy me paper instead. You know, sir, I can’t last long. The parish doctor says a few months of cold weather may finish me off, and a drop of milk ain’t much to give up for Jesus. Are people happy as has lots to give Him, sir?”

The visitor sighed a deep sigh, “Ah, lad, but you are a great deal happier in this wretched room, making sacrifices for Jesus, than thousands who profess to belong to Him, and who have time, talents and money, and do little or nothing for Him.”

“They don’t know Him, sir. Knowin’ is loving and loving is doing. It ain’t love without.”

“You are right, Tom. But now about yourself. I must begin by making your life brighter. How would you like to end your days in one of those homes for cripple lads, where you would be nursed and cared for, and where you would see the trees and flowers, and hear the birds sing? I could get you into one, not far from my home, Tom, if you like.”

The weary lad looked wistfully into the man’s kindly face, and after a few minutes of silence, answered:

“Thank’ee, sir. I’ve heard tell of ‘em before, but I ain’t anxious to die easy when He died hard. I might get taken up with them things too much, and I’d rather be a-lookin’ at Him, and carrying on this ‘ear work till He comes to fetch me. Plenty of joy for a boy like me to have a mansion with Him up there through eternity.” The visitor felt more reproved then ever.

“Very well, my lad; then I will see that you have proper food and all the paper you need while you live. I will settle it all with one of the Bible women. Now, before I go, I want you to pray aloud for me,” and as he made the request the strong man knelt down by the dying boy’s bedside, scarcely suppressing a sob as he covered his face with his hands. The lad trembled at having to do such a thing, but when he saw that bowed form and heard that half-stifled sob, he knew he ought to comply with the request.

There was a seraphic light on the poor pale, upturned face, as he said in a tone of the deepest reverence: “Lord Jesus, I know You’re a-listenin’, and I’m much obliged to You for sending this friend here to cheer me in my work. Now, Lord Jesus, he’s a bit troubled about not havin’ worked for Thee enough in the past days. Will you help him to see to it that there’s nothin’ left undone in the comin’ days, and please, Lord, make him go straight away and tell them other rich men that they don’t know Thee if they aren’t a-workin’ for Thee. And I’m grateful to You, Jesus, for all the paper and the food that’s a-comin’ to me while I live. Maybe I’ll hold out a bit longer to write these texts for Thee. Now, Lord Jesus, please bless this kind friend, all roads and always. I ask this for Thy name’s sake.”

“Amen,” said the deep-toned voice.

Then the gentlemen rose and said farewell. Before leaving London he made every arrangement for the lad to be cared for, and then with a gladder heart he went back to his beautiful country home and lived for Christ. As soon as he could he built a mission hall on his own grounds, and preached Jesus to the villagers. When he confessed his sin of negligence towards them, and told them of his second conversion through the cripple boy and his text, many of them were led to “seek Jesus.”

News of the dying lad reached them from time to time through the Bible woman, but it was not till winter set in, and the snow had fallen and covered the earth with its crystal whiteness, that they heard that the dear lad “had gone to be with Jesus.” The same post brought a parcel, which contained Tom’s much prized and much-used Bible. What a precious relic was that marked Bible in that beautiful home! For when the cripple boy’s friend lent it to his youngest son to read — the careful marking, the short, simple prayers written by the cripple lad on the margin, and his dying wish on the flyleaf, written about a week before his death, that “this Holy Book may be as great a friend to someone else as it has been to me,” made such a deep impression on the youth that he gave himself to the Lord, and later on to mission work in foreign fields, and out in Central Africa he has shown that worn Bible to many a native Christian, when telling them about Cripple Tom and his texts.

This beautiful incident of consecration in lowly life teaches us that the most adverse circumstances coupled with intense suffering, need not interfere with a life of intense devotion to Jesus Christ. Thousands of sad, weary hearts want the little ministry of love that we might render. Shall we then take our ease, enjoy our pleasure or indulge in our luxuries? Millions of dark, benighted souls are crying out for the light; they continue to grope in darkness, while many of us who profess to love Christ live self-centered and self-indulgent lives. Today — without the help of the world — the Christian churches could easily send out enough missionaries to evangelize the world; but the dark blot of “it won’t,” stains its fair name. Oh, that the Spirit of God would, by His mighty power, cleanse away all the slothfulness, unreality, and self-complacency from our lives, for following Christ means self-sacrifice, and there is no such thing as holiness without it. If a dying lad in suffering and destitution could joyfully deny himself the little sip of milk, which cooled his parched lips and partly fed his weary body, surely it is possible for us to do more!

“Who then is willing to consecrate his service this day unto the Lord?” (1 Chron. 29:5)

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