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There was once an old English king who was taken captive, and thrown into an unknown dungeon. NO one knew where he was, but a favorite minstrel determined to find him, and went from castle to castle among the mountain forests, playing before the bars of every dungeon some old melody that his king knew. At last, the weary king, sitting hopeless and despairing in his cell, heard one day a strain which roused in him all the memories of the past, and carried him back in thought to his home. The life, long slumbering in the sleep of despair, sprung up again. The old king answered back, and was found and restored to his throne.
So our conscience may sleep shut up in a dark dungeon, chained behind iron gates and stone walls, while its throne is empty. But some day there comes a voice thrilling through the bars, which arouses the long silent king of the soul. It may be the voice of song, an old familiar cradle hymn or household psalm which a sainted mother used to sing in childhood’s pure, sweet days. It may be some text of God’s word flying like an arrow from heaven. It may be the death of some friend, or some terrible calamity like the crushing of an avalanche upon the soul. It may be some lightning flash of conviction, whose lurid glare reveals the awful blackness of eternity, and startles the slumbering soul to life. Well shall it be if this arousing occurs this side of death’s dark waters, where the cross stands with its bleeding sacrifice, where the voice of mercy calls, where the angel of love may yet lead the guilty one back through the gate of penitence to pardon and life.