‘He hath said in his heart, God hath forgotten. He hideth His face.’
And I am told to say to you that He does not hide His face.
Rather I am told to quote this to you from the Eighteenth Psalm:
‘They prevented me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was my stay.
He sent from above, He took me, He drew me out of many waters.’
“‘He delivered me from my strong enemy. “‘And from them which hated me, for they were too many for me.
“‘He brought me forth also unto a large place. “‘He delivered me because He delighted in me.’
“Clyde, those are all words addressed to you.
They come to me here to say to you just as though they were being whispered to me.
I am but the mouthpiece for these words spoken direct to you.
Take counsel with your own heart.
Turn from the shadow to the light.
Let us break these bonds of misery and gloom; chase these shadows and this darkness.
You have sinned.
The Lord can and will forgive.
Repent.
Join with Him who has shaped the world and keeps it.
He will not spurn your faith; He will not neglect your prayers.
Turn — in yourself — in the confines of this cell — and say:
‘Lord, help me.
Lord, hear Thou my prayer.
Lord, lighten mine eyes!’
“Do you think there is no God — and that He will not answer you?
Pray.
In your trouble turn to Him — not me — or any other.
But to Him.
Pray.
Speak to Him.
Call to Him.
Tell Him the truth and ask for help.
As surely as you are here before me — and if in your heart you truly repent of any evil you have done — TRULY, TRULY, you will hear and feel Him.
He will take your hand.
He will enter this cell and your soul.
You will know Him by the peace and the light that will fill your mind and heart.
Pray.
And if you need me again to help you in any way — to pray with you — or to do you any service of any kind — to cheer you in your loneliness — you have only to send for me; drop me a card.
I have promised your mother and I will do what I can.
The warden has my address.”
He paused, serious and conclusive in his tone — because up to this time, Clyde had looked more curious and astonished than anything else.
At the same time because of Clyde’s extreme youthfulness and a certain air of lonely dependence which marked him ever since his mother and Nicholson had gone:
“I’ll always be in easy reach.
I have a lot of religious work over in Syracuse but I’ll be glad to drop it at any time that I can really do anything more for you.”
And here he turned as if to go.
But Clyde, now taken by him — his vital, confident and kindly manner — so different to the tense, fearful and yet lonely life here, called after him:
“Oh, don’t go just yet.
Please don’t.
It’s very nice of you to come and see me and I’m obliged to you.
My mother wrote me you might.
You see, it’s very lonely here.
I haven’t thought much of what you were saying, perhaps, because I haven’t felt as guilty as some think I am.