picked up that little crucifix and I put it in my pack, and when I got to
hospital I found that little crucifix on my table. One of the nurses or
the orderlies had put it there, thinking I was a Catholic. But I know I’m
not, sir. I am _nothing_. I have been looking at this little crucifix so
often since I was wounded, and I look at it till my eyes fill with tears,
because it reminds me of what He did for me—not this little bit of metal,
but what it means.”

I said, “Have you ever prayed?”

He replied, “No, sir. I’ve wept over this little crucifix—is that prayer?”

“That’s prayer of the best sort,” I said. “Every tear contained volumes
you could not utter, and God read every word. He knows all about it.”

I pulled out a little khaki Testament. “Would you like it?” I said. “Would
you read it?”

He answered, “Yes,” and signed the decision in the cover.

When I shook hands with him there was a light in his eyes. Have you ever
seen the light break over the cliff-tops of some high mountain peak? Have
you ever watched the sun kiss a landscape into beauty? Have you ever seen
the earth dance with gladness as the sun bathed it with radiance and
warmth? Oh, it’s a great sight; but there’s no sight like seeing the light
from Calvary kiss a human face as it fills the heart with the assurance of
Divine forgiveness.

* * * * *