Making the Most of Life | Page 3

our own life; for there come times when one's life must
literally be lost in order to be saved.
It was in a mine in England. There had been a fearful explosion, and
the men came rushing up from the lower level, right into the danger of
the deathly afterblast; when the only chance of safety was in another
shaft. And one man knew this and stood there in the dangerous passage,
warning the men. When urged to go himself the safe way, he said, "No;
some one must stay here to guide the others." Is there any heroism of
this world's life finer than that?

It was at Fredericksburg, after a bloody battle. Hundreds of Union
soldiers lay wounded on the field. All night and all next day the space
was swept by artillery from both armies; and no one could venture to
the sufferers' relief. All that time, too, there went up from the field
agonizing cries for water, but there was no response save the roar of the
guns. At length, however, one brave fellow behind the ramparts, a
Southern soldier, felt that he could endure these piteous cries no longer.
His compassion rose superior to his love of life.
"General," said Richard Kirkland to his commander, "I can't stand this.
Those poor souls out there have been praying for water all night and all
day, and it is more than I can bear. I ask permission to carry them
water."
The general assured him that it would be instant death for him to
appear upon the field, but he begged so earnestly that the officer,
admiring his noble devotion to humanity, could not refuse his request.
Provided with a supply of water, the brave soldier stepped over the wall
and went on his Christ-like errand. From both sides wondering eyes
looked on as he knelt by the nearest sufferer, and gently raising his
head, held the cooling cup to his parched lips. At once the Union
soldiers understood what the soldier in gray was doing for their own
wounded comrades, and not a shot was fired. For an hour and a half he
continued his work, giving drink to the thirsty, straightening cramped
and mangled limbs, pillowing men's heads on their knapsacks, and
spreading blankets and army coats over them, tenderly as a mother
would cover her child; and all the while, until this angel-ministry was
finished, the fusillade of death was hushed.
Again we must admire the heroism that led this brave soldier in gray so
utterly to forget himself for the sake of doing a deed of mercy to his
enemies. There is more grandeur in five minutes of such
self-renunciation than in a whole lifetime of self-interest and
self-seeking. There is something Christly in it. How poor, paltry, and
mean, alongside the records of such deeds, appear men's selfish
strivings, self-interests' boldest venturing!
We must get the same spirit in us if we would become in any large and

true sense a blessing to the world. We must die to live. We must lose
our life to save it. We must lay self on the altar to be consumed in the
fire of love, in order to glorify God and do good to men. Our work may
be fair, even though mingled with self; but it is only when self is
sacrificed, burned on the altar of consecration, consumed in the hot
flames of love, that our work becomes really our best, a fit offering to
be made to our King.
We must not fear that in such sacrifice, such renunciation and
annihilation of self, we shall lose ourselves. God will remember every
deed of love, every forgetting of self, every emptying out of life.
Though we work in obscurest places, where no human tongue shall
ever voice our praise, still there is a record kept, and some day rich and
glorious reward will be given. Is not God's praise better than man's?
"Ungathered beauties of a bounteous earth, Wild flowers which grow
on mountain-paths untrod. White water-lilies looking up to God From
solitary tarns--and human worth Doing meek duty that no glory gains,
Heroic souls in secret places sown, To live, to suffer, and to die
unknown-- Are not that loveliness and all these pains Wasted? Alas,
then does it not suffice That God is on the mountain, by the lake, And
in each simple duty, for whose sake His children give their very blood
as price? The Father sees. If this does not repay, What else? For
plucked flowers fade and praises slay."
Mary's ointment was wasted when she broke the vase and poured it
upon her Lord. Yes; but suppose she had left the ointment in the
unbroken vase? What remembrance would it then have had? Would
there have been any mention