A hymn and a prayer,
fervent and brief, precede the giving out of his text, Rev. i. 12-20.
The sermon is listened to attentively by old and young, of whom
considerably more than a hundred are present. Old Zippora is, as ever,
at her place at the end of the bench. Blind though she is, she often
walks miles to church over uneven ground or hummocky ice, when away at
the fishing places. She seems to take her part in the worship of the
sanctuary thoroughly, whether in response or sacred song, or as
listener with animated face and at times an overflowing heart. While I
am looking, her fingers seek the corner of her apron, and lifting it
she wipes the tears from her sightless eyes.
But the eloquent flow of words, mostly unintelligible to me, comes to
a close. A hymn is sung, and the New Testament blessing pronounced.
Then the procession from the missionary benches files out through the
schoolroom into the mission-house and the people disperse to their
homes. Mere mounds they look as I see them from my window. But they
are Christian homes, whence rises prayer and praise.
I was mistaken. The congregation had not dispersed, for the choir
wished to give me a specimen of their powers.
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