The Little Child That Was
The Little Child That Was is an exquisitely beautiful child, a child that is always a child, a child that never grows up. I remember hearing a Sunday-School superintendent in England tell a story of a shepherd who could not get his flock to cross a narrow bridge that spanned a silver stream. At last he took a lamb in his arms and crossed. The mother instantly dashed across after him, and the whole flock scampered at her heels.
The Little Child That Was has a great work to do in the world. The classical example is the story of Mrs. Josephine Butler. We all remember with a shudder the story of that holiday—the father and mother in Europe, the little girl left at home. And at last the night came when father and mother were expected. And in the night there was the sound of wheels and the commotion in the great hall below. The excited little daughter sprang from her bed, rushed out into the corridor, jumped up on to the banister rail to peer over to see “Dadda” and “Mamma” again. And then—the lost balance; the awful fall! “Never,” says Mrs. Butler, “never can I lose that memory, the fall, the sudden cry, and then the silence. It was pitiful to see her, helpless in her father’s arms, her little drooping head resting on his shoulder, and her beautiful golden hair all stained with blood, falling over his arm. Would to God that I had died that death for her I If only we had been permitted one look, one moment of recognition!”
Here, then, is a picture from life of the Little Child That Was! And we all know what resulted. Mrs. Josephine Butler could find no comfort until she rose from her grief and devoted herself to all the wayward and motherless daughters of the great world outside, and everybody who knows the story of that greatly heroic life for the world’s womanhood thanks God for the Little Child That Was. The Little Child That Was calls, not for sorrow, but for service.
—F. W. Boreham.
Alternate Reading: John 14:15-31.