“You have elected to come here to pray, so we will just kneel down at once.  I am not going to do anything more than guide you.  I want you to tell God what you feel you need in your own language.”

The prayers of those boys would have made a book.  There were no old-fashioned phrases.  You know what I mean—­people begin at a certain place and there is no stopping them till they get to another certain place.  One of these boys began, “Please God, You know I’ve been a rotter.”  That’s the way to pray.  That boy was talking to God and the Lord was very glad to listen.

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I was talking to one boy—­an American; he was a little premature, he was in the fight before his country.

“Sonny,” I said, “you’re an American?”

“Yes, sir.  I was born in Michigan.”

“Well, what are you doing, fighting under the British flag?”

“I guess it’s my fight too, sir.  This,” he said, “is not a fight for England, France, or Belgium, but a fight for the race, and I wouldn’t have been a man if I had kept out.”

I told that story to one of our Generals who died last September.

“Ah!” he said, “that boy got to the bottom of the business.  It’s for the race.  It’s for the race.”

“Are you a Christian?” I asked.

“No,” he answered; “but I should like to be one.  I wasn’t brought up.  I grew up, and I grew up my own way, and my own way was the wrong way.  I go to church occasionally—­if a friend is getting married.  I know the story of the Christian faith a little, but it has never really meant anything to me.”

Then he continued slowly, “On the Somme, a few hours before I was badly wounded”—­he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little crucifix—­“I 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.