I spoke of God, and he
cursed him. I tried to speak of Jesus and his death for us, but he stopped
me with his oaths, and said: "That's all a lie. Nobody ever died for
others."
I went away discouraged, saying to myself that I knew it was of no use. But
the next day I went again, and every day for two weeks. He did not show the
gratitude of a dog, and at the end of that time I said that I was not going
any more. That night as I was putting my little boy to bed, I did not pray
for the miner. My little boy noticed it and said:--
"Mama, you did not pray for the bad man."
"No," I answered, with a sigh.
"Have you given him up, mama?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Has God given him up, mama? Ought you to give him up till God does?"
I could not sleep that night. I thought of the dying man, so vile, and with
no one to care! I rose and went away by myself to pray; but the moment that
I knelt, I was overpowered by the sense of how little meaning there had
been to my prayers. I had had no faith, and I had not really cared, beyond
a kind of half-hearted sentiment. I had not claimed his soul for God.
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