Shortly after the happy arrivals, one woman makes the mistake of rolling onto her baby during the night and suffocating it. Whether she was drunk or not we do not know. Aghast at her tragic loss she decides to sneak over to the other bed and exchange babies – her dead one for the still living one. When the other mother wakes the next day she goes to feed what she assumes is her baby only to see that it is dead. On closer inspection she realises that this is not her baby after all. Finding that the living one, her own baby, is with the other woman, she quickly guesses what has happened and they fall into a fierce dispute.
Because no-one else was in the house and the woman who now has the live baby is determined to go on in her lies they are at loggerheads. What can they do? In those days you could go to the elders at the city gate. Perhaps they tried that but got nowhere and so decided to go higher up the judicial ladder. The Supreme Court of the day was the Royal Court, the court of the king himself. We do not know how far from Jerusalem they were or how long they had to wait before they could see the king but eventually they are able to stand before him. In a remarkable example of most profound wisdom Solomon solves their wrangle once and for all – at a stroke, or rather with the mere threat of a stroke.
The story is what we call an epitomising one. It sums up the wisdom of Solomon. It is a carefully chosen example to give you some idea of the depths of his wisdom. We still do this today. Sometimes one telling incident can sum up a person’s character for you. So for example there are many such stories of the great 19th Century preacher C H Spurgeon. You have to be careful, of course, as some are apocryphal. I like the stories of how he dealt with people who claimed to be sinless – rousing them to anger adn so showing their lack of perfection. I also like the story of a madman who came into the vestry at the Metropolitan Tabernacle. He shut the door and declared that he had come to cut Spurgeon's throat. "I would not do that," said Spurgeon. "See what a mess it would make on the carpet.""Oh, I never thought of that!" said the man and was quietly led out of the room!
We have looked at the first part of 1 Kings 3 and how God granted him wisdom. Here we consider the last part of the chapter and the epitomising story of how that wisdom manifested itself. In light of this incident, we want to ask three questions.
Why do we need wisdom?
This is one thing we can explore here. Wisdom, of course, is not the same as knowledge. Wisdom is applying knowledge. It is a little like the difference between learning and teaching, between science and technology – the appliance of science. It is like the difference between a recipe and cooking a cake, an instruction pamphlet from IKEA and the completed kitchen, a sermon and the actual preaching, hearing a sermon and doing it. So why do we need wisdom?
1. Because of our ignorance
The reason this case came before Solomon is because no-one knew exactly what had happened. The one woman who saw what happened was not telling the truth. The woman disputing her claim had worked out the story but she had not actually seen it happen. None of us are God. He alone knows and sees all things. There are many, many things that we have not seen and that we do not know. Because we are so ignorant we need something more than knowledge. We need wisdom. Indeed, one of the first steps to it is to realise how ignorant we are. One of Solomon’s Proverbs (26:12) says ‘Do you see a man wise in his own eyes? There is more hope for a fool than for him.’ See also 1 Cor 8:2 ‘The man who thinks he knows something does not yet know as he ought to know.’
2. Because of conflicting opinions
There are some people who think they can be wise simply by seeking the opinions of others. Proverbs 19:20 does say ‘Listen to advice and accept instruction, and in the end you will be wise.’ However, simply listening to the opinions of others is not enough. The writer and broadcaster Melvyn Bragg is an example of a man who seems to work on this erroneous principle. If you ever listen to his programmes you will notice how his procedure with a subject is to bring in the recognised experts and from them to try and gather the evidence to gain an informed understanding. It seems to be the obvious way forward.
He would get nowhere with these two women, however. He would have them on his programme; he would interview them. He would probe them a bit and maybe he would be more sympathetic to one or the other. It would make an interesting programme, perhaps. The problem, however, would not be solved. Canvassing opinion is all very good but it will not make you wise. This is the dilemma (as Solomon puts it in verse 23) ‘This one says, My son is alive and your son is dead, while that one says, No! Your son is dead and mine is alive.’
Many things are like that. This one says, ‘The Bible is true and trustworthy’; that one says, ‘No! It is not’. This one says, ‘There is a God’; that one says, ‘No! There is no God’. This one says, ‘Jesus is just a man’; that one says, ‘No! He is God come in the flesh.’ Obviously arguments need to be probed but sometimes it is very difficult to be sure who is right. We are not and cannot be omniscient.
And behind this extraordinary combination of remarkable, though not transcendent, powers, was a deadly earnestness, a consuming passion, that made second-rate qualities sublime. The most revealing paragraph in Dr Fullerton’s book occurs towards the end. It is a quotation from Mr S himself. ‘Leaving home early in the morning’, he says, ‘I went to the vestry and sat there all day long, seeing those who had been brought to Christ by my preaching of the Word. Their stories were so absorbing to me that the hours fled without my noticing how fast they were going. I may have seen some thirty or more persons during the day, one after the other, and I was so delighted with the tales of divine mercy they had to tell me, and the wonders of grace God had wrought in them, that I did not know anything about the passage of time. At seven o’clock we had our prayer meeting. I went in and prayed with the brethren. And, after that, came the church meeting. A little before ten I felt faint, and I began to wonder at what hour I had eaten my dinner, and I then for the first time remembered that I had not tasted any! I never thought of it. I never even felt hungry; God had made me so glad!’
Mr S lived that he might save men. He thought of nothing else. From his first sermon at Waterbeach to his last at Mentone, the conversion of sinners was the dream of all his days. That master-passion glorified the whole man and threw a grandeur about the common details of every day. He would cheerfully have thrown away his soul to save the souls of others.
I was in London on the day of his burial. Indeed, I stood beside the grave at Norwood and saw the casket, surmounted by the palm-fronds that had accompanied it from Mentone, reverently lowered. Before hearing the final benediction pronounced by a future Archbishop of Canterbury (then Bishop of Rochester), I listened to the most perfect tribute that, on any such occasion, I have ever heard. For brevity, beauty, dignity and pathos, I have often thought that the exquisite apostrophe addressed by Archibald G Brown to the dead preacher deserves to rank with the historic utterance of Abraham Lincoln on the field of Gettysburg. On my mind, at any rate, it created an impression that has deepened rather than faded with the years.
On that unforgettable day the great city stood still. The black crowds stretching for miles and miles testified to the reverence and affection in which everybody held him. They were taking farewell of a great man, good as gold and honest as the day, who had left the world immensely better than he found it.
One of these days some able and penetrating historian will undertake to analyse the subtle and permeating influence of Spurgeon and to view his life and work in its true historic perspective. When that volume appears, its readers will be impressed by the way in which the rugged personality of Mr S stands out boldly against a striking, dramatic and picturesque background. For, during the latter half of the nineteenth century, English history took a surprising turn; the nation was made all over again. Its politics, its literature, its science, its commerce, its art, and, above all, its faith were recast and refashioned; whilst the position of Great Britain among the world powers assumed an entirely new character and importance.
In this renaissance Mr S played a conspicuous part, and he did it in two ways. He did it by creating a popular atmosphere for evangelism. This was his supreme triumph. In his famous Memoirs, Grenville graphically describes Mr S - whose physique struck him as singularly reminiscent of Macaulay’s - preaching, at an ordinary service, to nine thousand people. It impressed him, as it impressed all thoughtful observers, as an arresting and epoch-making phenomenon. It forced the evangelical pulpit into the glare of public attention.
The world was compelled to sit up and take notice. It made thinkable and possible the work of all those ministers and evangelists who have since captured the attention of the populace. And it is only when we attempt to estimate the spiritual, ethical and civic value of the impact of Mr S’s flaming intensity upon each individual unit in the surging crowds that flocked every Sunday with wistful faces to hear him that we realize how vitally he contributed to the new order that sprang into being in his time.
Nor was this all. Mr S had a second string to his bow. A great age produces great men, and, by the very men that it produces, is made still greater. The annals of the Victorian era glitter, like a starry sky, with brilliant and illustrious names. There were giants in those days. But among those Homeric figures there was scarcely one upon whom Mr S did not exercise a profound and formative influence. He magnetized and sometimes electrified them. They went to hear him: they sought his counsel, and they struggled to keep the movements that they directed in harmony with the atmosphere that he generated.
The most skillful of analytical historians must find it beyond their wit to account, in precise terms, for Mr S’s authority over the minds of the men who dominated his period. But the most cursory review of the history of the nineteenth century must convince any man that his sway was stupendous. A kingmaker occupies a more exalted eminence than a king. And, in that age of crisis and of transformation, there were many kingly spirits who gratefully confessed that, but for Mr S’s ministry, in public and in private, their own contribution to the nation's astonishing development would have been negligible.
I often heard Spurgeon. On each occasion it was an ordinary Sunday morning service; on each occasion I had to stand in an apparently endless queue waiting for the doors to open; and on each occasion I found myself, on gaining admission, an insignificant unit in the crowd of five or six thousand people who packed the vast auditorium to capacity. And this sort of thing went on, summer and winter, year in and year out, for a generation.
The service was never advertised. Why should it be? Mr S’s trouble was to keep people away. He was everlastingly imploring his own members to absent themselves in order to make room for the strangers who desired to hear him. He had no organ and no choir. The singing was led by a precentor with a tuning fork.
Those who went to hear Spurgeon - and in those days everybody, from kings to crossing-sweepers, went at some time or other - bore away with them an indelible impression: they vowed that, if possible, they would go again; they talked of the strange and striking experience for years afterwards; but not one of them was ever able to explain, in so many words, what it was about the service, the singing or the preacher, that produced upon his mind so extraordinary an effect.
Few men have achieved such world-wide and enduring fame with such slender natural advantages. He had nothing in the way of a magnetic presence. When he made his way from the vestry to the pulpit, it seemed incredible that so very commonplace a figure could hold those thousands spellbound. His infirmity often compelled him to keep his seat whilst preaching; and, on each of the occasions on which I heard him, he leaned heavily with both hands on the pulpit rail.
Some people thought him positively repulsive. George Eliot did. Mrs Florence Barclay, of The Rosary, was also shocked at first. ‘He reminded me’, she makes one of her characters say, ‘of a grotesque gorilla and I often dreaded the moment when he should rise up, face us and announce a text. It seemed to me that there ought to be bars between, and that we should want to throw nuts and oranges. But when he rose to preach, his face was transfigured. Goodness and inspiration shone from it, making it the face of an angel!’
A princely presence is undoubtedly a great asset to a public speaker; but it has the disadvantage that it may excite inflated anticipations that his subsequent utterance may fail to fulfil. Mr S’s crude appearance, on the contrary, led his hearers to expect a torrent of mediocrity; and his powerful and persuasive eloquence, when they heard it, gathered to itself the value of a sensational surprise.
It was often said, too, that Mr S was not quite a gentleman; and Dr W Y Fullerton, his biographer, admits that, judged by conventional standards, the charge can be sustained. It was certainly true in the early days, and nobody told him so more plainly than his wife. Even in their courting days, she had good reason to be scandalised. On one occasion, for example, he took her to a service at which he was to preach. A crowd was struggling for admission to the building. Mr S calmly walked off to the vestry, leaving his poor little lady-love to battle with the crowd as best she could. Instead of making the attempt, she hurried home in high dudgeon and poured her tale of woe into her indignant mother’s ear.
After the service, the young preacher anxiously sought his lost sweetheart, and it was not until he had heard from her mother’s lips exactly what that lady thought of him that the task of reconciliation could begin. But it is difficult to see how any man - and exceedingly difficult to see how such a man - could breathe the atmosphere that Mr S breathed during the years of his amazing ministry without being incalculably sweetened and enriched and refined in the process.
Someone sent me this - I can't remember who - my father-in-law? The great thing about this is that if you really identify you can listen to it over and over again and never get bored. The artist is Tom Rush and the song is written by one Steven Walters.
Some say this is a verse about banishment and its ill effects. Others see it as a warning against leaving home or abandoning your post. It condemns the quitter, the runaway, the wanderer, the rolling stone, the drifter, the rootless man. Again and again such a life is celebrated in literature and popular culture. Think of W H Davies’s ‘Supertramp’ for example. The contemporary Portuguese Canadian singer Nelly Furtado has an interesting song using the very image used here.
The wider application relates to the unlikelihood of achieving much in any area if we do not settle to the task, if we are not at home with it. Stickability is an important virtue. That applies to anything from finishing a task at your desk or workbench or finishing a book (reading or writing) to fathering a godly family, pastoring a church, governing a country. Spurgeon says ‘The unrest of that man’s mind, and the instability of his conduct who is constantly making a change of his position and purpose, augurs no success for any of his adventures.’
UK office: Telephone: 0131 (+44 131) 337 7310 e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
US office: Telephone: (717) 249 5747
Newton Commemoration, 2007
Last Conversations with John Newton (From 1809)
William Wilberforce on John Newton
Reading Newton’s Writings
Short Extracts from Newton’s Writings
John Newton of Olney (Times 1893)
‘In few writers are Christian doctrine, experience and practice more happily balanced than in John Newton, and few write with more simplicity, piety and force. ’ C. H. SPURGEON
‘True religion exists in various degrees. Nehemiah not only feared God, but feared God above many . . . I deem Mr Newton the most perfect instance of the spirit and temper of Christianity I ever knew. ’ WILLIAM JAY
‘What a strange life! A man who left school at the age of 10; press-ganged at 18; delivered from his own slavery when he was about 24; slow in understanding his new faith; failing at first in his efforts to preach; then, at the age of 39, becoming the curate of an obscure town; yet, ultimately, dying a much-loved teacher of the whole Christian world!’ IAIN H. MURRAY
I enjoy coffee especially in coffee shops. My favourite is Caffè Nero (Italian for 'black coffee' - how I like it). I prefer it over Starbucks (with its too thick mugs) and Costa (the name says it all). CN makes out it's Italian but in fact Caffè Nero Group Plc is a British chain established only 10 years ago (1997). It currently runs around 300 shops nationwide including one near here in Golders Green.
Along with traditional espresso based drinks (I like Americano - watered down espresso) Caffè Nero stores also sell frappé latte (an iced latte) fruit booster (an iced fruit drink) and Hot Chocolate Milano, an extra sweet and thick hot chocolate drink. In summer 2006 they relaunched their iced drink range, the feature product being a range of premium milkshakes called Frappe-Milkshakes. The chain also has its own line of soup dishes (Real Soup). Though it does not use Fairtrade labelling and it is not Fair trade Certified, the chain claims it does trade fair and purchases its coffee at premium prices for a better deal with the producers.
There should be a grave accent over the "e" in Caffè Nero, but it is sometimes erroneously written with an acute one, or with no accent at all.
The square "O" in the logo can sometimes be mistaken for a "D", giving the impression that the company is called "Caffè Nerd". A spoof website has popped up to accommodate this misconception - here
Starting in London, the chain has expanded to over 290 branches throughout Britain. It is planning to expand to 450 over the next six years, and is also looking to take the brand abroad. As a result of the chain's rapid expansion, Caffè Nero has been named the twentieth fastest growing company in Europe in the 2004 Europe's 500. The chain continues to expand its product range, including a range of premium coffee based drinks.
One of Newport's few claims to fame is its focus for John Frost and the Chartist riots of 1834. In John Frost Square this (1968??) mural can be found. Apparenty the mural is under some sort of threat. The people involved came down the valleys and would have marched through the place where I was brought up stopping at the Greenhouse Inn, Llantarnam, for sustenance (where a rare bit of (1719) Welsh has survived above the door - cwrw da a seidr i chwi [good ale & cider 4U]). Wesley preached outside the church next door one time. (BTW Newport is, as ever, a building site with major redevelopments going on. For some reason it's always like that).
We arrived Monday night. The Llangrannog crew left early next morning. I headed into town through the rain a little later. I spent half the morning in Cardiff, reading and praying and wandering then went to Newport by train (more expensive than bus but twice as quick). I'd not realised that in both places train announcements are in Welsh first then English. I don't know how long they've done that. I was a student in Cardiff Uni one year (PGCE) so I know the place a little. Newport I know better. I was born there and it's my parents' home town.
In Cardiff there was some nostalgia - the hop smell from Brains brewery, the castle, arcades, etc. There was more in Newport which I know better (transporter bridge, market, etc). Both are more multi-cultural than I remember them. I met a Tamil in MacDonalds. 'Are you a Christian?' I said (trying to witness in a subtle way). 'No, Hindu' he said. I said, there are a lot of Baptists in Tamil Nadhu. He said he was brought up in Dubai. 'Oh' I said 'not many Christians there'. We try. I met a Nigerian woman and her 3 year old (Ini) on the bus. New to Newport she was still trying to find a church. Though critical of African/Nigerian churches she seemed determined to go to one even if it means travelling to Cardiff. I spoke about the importance of seriousness and daily Bible reading.
Both cities are pretty homogenised as regards retail outlets though it was nice to see in Newport that places like Wildings, Henry Cordy, Maskreys, C Marks (electrical goods) are still there. I noticed that both cities have joke shops. Is that standard or does it tell me something?
I also enjoyed going into Newport market. It's been spruced up but is still the same basic structure. When I got the bus to the Royal Gwent hospital it took us via St Woolos hospital, which is where I was born (no blue plaque yet), which was nice.
I enjoyed just wandering around the cities. In Cardiff I just looked at shops, including the EMW Christian Bookshop, Wyndham Arcade. I wanted to buy something but the only book that took my fancy (Tom Nettles on Baptist history) was a little expensive. In Newport I bought 2 coffee table books for the boys (Natural Wonders of the world and 501 Must Reads) and a biography of Burt Bacharach for 49p. I used a book token on a biography of W H Davies in the Merlin Bookshop. I got into conversation with a man there about Gareth Pearson. He thought he was a copycat of some other guitarist. Opinions.
In Newport I spent an hour in the museum, which was quite interesting - Roman stuff then the Chartists and more recent history. The only evidence for Christianity in the first period is a "chai rho" scratched on the bottom of a jar. How it was spotted even amazes me. As for more recent times there was a display of Boys Brigade stuff and similar. Not much else to say, sadly. I had a chat with the attendant after about various things. The Queen's visit to Newport came up and he showed me a picture at the station. He said it was 1962. I've just checked - it was October 26, 1962. She came to open the Spencer Steel Works. I remember it well. I held a little plastic union jack to wave. She wore green. I didn't notice Prince Philip. I was born May 22, 1959 so was only 3 yrs 5 mths, which surprises me. It's one of my earliest memories - not that I've thought of it in years. I think it's the combination of anticipation plus the disappointment that she wore no crown.
Anyway, my dad seemed well. We read the Bible again and I prayed. My dad was at his most sympathetic to my faith but still holds out against turning to Christ. I then walked to the bus station to wait for the coach. They were pumping out Pachelbel and Vivaldi on a loop, which was a little odd. The bus had started in Cardiff so was chock full. I took the only available seat next to a woman with a book on Jinns in her hand. We soon fell into conversation and chatted more or less non-stop Newport to Golders Green. A BBC Wales journalist, she was a keen but ecumenically minded Muslim. I learned a lot and hopefully said something worthwhile. It was interesting that when (as politely as I could) I explained what we think of their prophet, it became apparent she'd not realised that her calling Jesus a prophet and a great man is equally offensive to us.
'Welsh Society should be open to Scottish members; the wine society open to teetotal members, the choral society should be open to non-singing members, and the cheerleading society should be open to male members ...' Yeah, right.
We're getting to the end of term here and so I've just been to see my eldest in the school production of Lionel Bart's Oliver (a life-long love of his) set in the seventies. He played the rather nasty Bill Sykes. A triumph! They were all pretty good, especially Nancy and Fagin.
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye,
The gods, that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
O Jesus, Lord of heavenly grace,
[or, O Jesu, Lord of light and grace]
Thou Brightness of Thy Father’s face,
Thou Fountain of eternal light,
Whose beams disperse the shades of night.
Come, holy Sun of heavenly love,
Shower down Thy radiance from above,
And to our inward hearts convey
The Holy Spirit’s cloudless ray.
So we the Father’s help will claim,
And sing the Father’s glorious Name,
And His almighty grace implore
That we may stand, to fall no more.
May He our actions deign to bless,
And loose the bonds of wickedness;
From sudden falls our feet defend,
And bring us to a prosperous end.
May faith, deep rooted in the soul,
Subdue our flesh, our minds control;
May guile depart, and discord cease,
And all within be joy and peace.
So let us gladly pass the day;
Our thoughts be pure as morning ray;
And faithful love our noonday light;
And hope our sunset, calm and bright.
O Christ, with each returning morn
Thine image to our hearts is borne:
O may we ever clearly see
Our Saviour and our God in Thee.
It is sometimes suggested that the parson was a Lollard. Sounds like.
The Canterbury Tales povre persoun of a toun by Geoffrey Chaucer (1342-1400)
A good man was ther of religioun,
And was a povre PERSOUN OF A TOUN,
But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benynge he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversitee ful pacient,
And swich he was ypreved ofte sithes.
Ful looth were hym to cursen for his tithes,
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,
Unto his povre parisshens aboute
Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce.
He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce.
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder,
But he ne lefte nat, for reyn ne thonder,
In siknesse nor in meschief to visite
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite,
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf.
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,
That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte.
Out of the gosple he tho wordes caughte,
And this figure he added eek therto,
That if gold ruste, what shal iren do?
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste,
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste;
And shame it is, if a prest take keep,
A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep.
Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive,
By his clennesse, how that his sheep sholde lyve.
He sette nat his benefice to hyre
And leet his sheep encombred in the myre
And ran to Londoun unto Seinte Poules
To seken hym a chaunterie for soules,
Or with a bretherhed to been witholde;
But dwelt at hoom, and kepte wel his folde,
So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie;
He was a shepherde and noght a mercenarie.
And though he hooly were and vertuous,
He was to synful men nat despitous,
Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,
But in his techyng discreet and benygne;
To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse,
By good ensample, this was his bisynesse.
But it were any persone obstinat,
What so he were, of heigh or lough estat,
Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys.
A bettre preest I trowe, that nowher noon ys.
He waited after no pompe and reverence,
Ne maked him a spiced conscience,
But Cristes loore, and Hise apostles twelve
He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve.
Here is a classic case of what appears to be a contradiction. However, it is hardly to be believed that the writer did not notice it! Rather these adjacent proverbs bring out both the limitations of any given proverb and the dilemma we face when reasoning with the unreasonable. Sometimes it is better to veer towards the Scylla of simply saying nothing. At other times it is better, indeed necessary, to head toward the Charybdis of reasoning with such people. Part of wisdom is the skilful application of the right method at the right time. On one hand, we want to avoid becoming fools ourselves by answering foolish questions. A Jewish proverb says that when a wise man argues with a fool then two fools are arguing. On the other, sometimes the fool has to be taken on at his own game or he will never see his error. For example, when the so-called Jehovah’s Witness knocks at your door do you spend time speaking to them or not? Pray for wisdom. If we see something blasphemous on television or in the newspaper, should we always respond? How should we deal with people who appear to be wasting our time? Open-air workers are always wrestling with the problem of how to deal with hecklers. Like the Lord Jesus we must avoid using the fool’s methods and repaying insult with insult (see 1 Pet 2:23, 3:9) and we must sometimes answer their foolish questions and accusations with great wisdom (see Matt 12, 15, 21, 22).
Somewhere I'm sure I have Masters of the English Reformation - Yes, there it is, an ex-library copy in hardback from 1955. It looks at Bilney, Tyndale, Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer.
Born in 1911, Loane is a good writer and the biographical sketches (about 40 pages each?) are a good length. I notice he also has books on Bunyan, Baxter, Rutherford and Alexander Henderson (Makers of Religious Freedom in the Seventeenth Century also known as Makers of Puritan History) Robert Barnes, John Bradford, John Frith and John Rogers (Pioneers of the Reformation in England), Martyn, Zinzendorf and J B Lightfoot (Three faithful servants), Archbishop Mowll, H C G Moule and J C Ryle, etc. This is quite apart from his many other books.
B. A character used in this system of writing.
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
This is just to say by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
they were delicious
and so cold
My only trust and Saviour of my heart,
Who pain didst undergo for my poor sake;
I pray Thee from our hearts all cares to take.
Thou art the King of mercy and of grace,
Reigning omnipotent in every place;
So come, O King, and our whole being sway;
Shine on us with the light of Thy pure day.
Thou art the life, by which alone we live,
And all our substance and our strength receive;
Sustain us by Thy faith and by Thy power,
And give us strength in every trying hour.
Thou hast the true and perfect gentleness,
No harshness hast Thou and no bitterness;
O grant to us the grace we find in Thee,
That we may dwell in perfect unity.
Our hope is in no other save in Thee;
Our faith is built upon Thy promise free;
Lord, give us peace, and make us calm and sure,
That in Thy strength we evermore endure.
"Anyway, what ever the origin was, the Swastika now stands for the badge of fellowship among Scouts all over the world, and when anyone has done a kindness to a Scout it is their privilege to present him or her with this token of their gratitude, which makes him a sort of member of the Brotherhood, and entitles him to the help of any other Scout at any time and at any place.
"I want specially to remind Scouts to keep their eyes open and never fail to spot anyone wearing this badge. It is their duty then to go up to such a person, make the scout sign, and ask if they can be of service to the wearer."