The Smoke of a Thousand Villages

"I have seen, at different times, the smoke of a thousand villages--villages whose people are without Christ, without God, and without hope in this world."

[Robert Moffat, Missionary to South African Interior, 19th Century]

This man saw a need, a very great need. As he peered towards the sky daily he would gaze upon smoke that ascended from the villages of tribes of men who were unknown to men and unreached for Christ. This alone kept him in the dangerous South African Interior for over half a century as he labored joyfully for the Lord, and although often at times he never met the men of these tribes he sought to reach with the Gospel, he loved them. He almost daily faced opposition and death, but such things were minor obstacles that he simply trusted in the Lord to get him through. Rough terrain, dangerous countryside, foreign tongue, extreme climates, and cannibals would not halt him in bringing the saving Gospel of Jesus Christ unto lost men who were without Christ, without God, and without any hope in this world. "He had withstood medicine men like Elijah had withstood the prophets of Baal at Carmel."

Although that was almost a century ago, the smoke continues to rise, and it is rising here in our own hometowns. It is rising from the souls of men who are without Christ, without God, and without any hope in this world, and it is our duty to bring to them the saving Gospel of Jesus Christ. Young man. Young woman. Give up your life to Christ and spend your days laboring for Him and His glory bringing the Gospel unto lost men. We have one chance to do this.

Sweet Hour of Prayer

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief,
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare,
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
The joys I feel, the bliss I share,
Of those whose anxious spirits burn
With strong desires for thy return!
With such I hasten to the place
Where God my Savior shows His face,
And gladly take my station there,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
Thy wings shall my petition bear
To Him whose truth and faithfulness
Engage the waiting soul to bless.
And since He bids me seek His face,
Believe His Word and trust His grace,
I’ll cast on Him my every care,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
May I thy consolation share,
Till, from Mount Pisgah’s lofty height,
I view my home and take my flight.
This robe of flesh I’ll drop, and rise
To seize the everlasting prize,
And shout, while passing through the air,
“Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer!”

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-William Watford, 1845 [hymn]