For the moment the crowd was won.  They were now just as eager for a miracle as lately for blasphemy.  No one dared to move.  All panted from excitement, but nothing happened.  “O God, Thou forsakest us!  Thou forsakest us, O God!”

The beautiful salvation soldier began to sing.  She chose the mildest of melodies:  “Oh, my beloved, wilt Thou not come soon?”

Touching as a praying child, the song entered their souls—­like a caress, like a blessing.

The crowd was silent, wrapped in those notes.  “Mountains and forests long, heaven and earth languish.  Man, everything in the world, thirsts that you shall open your soul to the light.  Then glory will spread over the earth, then the beasts will rise up from their degradation.

“Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?”

“It is not true that thou dost linger in lofty halls.  In the dark wood, in miserable hovels thou dwellest.  And thou wilt not come.  My bright heaven does not tempt thee.

“Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?”

In the hall more and more began to sing the burden.  Voice after voice joined in.  They did not rightly know what words they used.  The tune was enough.  All their longing could sing itself free in those tones.  They sang, too, down by the door.  Hearts were bursting.  Wills were subdued.  It no longer sounded like a pitiful lament, but strong, imperative, commanding.

“Oh, my beloved, wilt thou not come soon?”

Down by the door, in the worst of the crowd, stood Matts Wik.  He looked much intoxicated, but that evening he had not drunk.  He stood and thought.  “If I might speak, if I might speak!”

It was the strangest room he had ever seen, the most wonderful chance.  A voice seemed to say to him:  “These are the rushes to which you can whisper, the waves which will bear your voice.”

The singers started.  It was as if they had heard a lion roar in their ears.  A mighty, terrible voice spoke dreadful words.

It scoffed at God.  Why did men serve God?  He forsook all those who served him.  He had failed his own son.  God helped no one.

The voice grew louder, more like a roar every minute.  No one could have believed that human lungs could have such strength.  No one had ever heard such ravings burst from bruised heart.  All bent their heads like wanderers in the desert, when the storm beats on them.

Terrible, terrible words!  They were like thundering hammer strokes against God’s throne.  Against Him who had tortured Job, who had let the martyrs suffer, who let those who professed his faith burn at the stake.

A few had at first tried to laugh.  Some of them had thought that it was a joke.  But now they heard, quaking, that it was in earnest.  Already some rose up to flee to the platform.  They asked the protection of the Salvation Army from him who drew down upon them the wrath of God.

The voice asked them in hissing tones what rewards they expected for their trouble in serving God.  They need not count on heaven.  God was not freehanded with His heaven.  A man, he said, had done more good than was needed to be blessed.  He had brought greater offerings than God demanded.  But then he had been tempted to sin.  Life is long.  He paid out his hard-earned grace already in this world.  He would go the way of the damned.