Martyrdom is the supreme test of the Christian. From Stephen onward the record has been thrilling and abundantly full of proof that God is able to sustain and give holy triumph at the stake, or in the torture chambers of the Inquisition.
It is testimony to the peculiar value of Psalm 23 that Augustine chose it as the hymn of martyrs.
In September, 1553, Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester, was committed to the Fleet prison. His cell is described as “a vile and stinking chamber”; his bed consisted of “a little pad of straw.” Under these circumstances and in view of his martyrdom, which took place at Gloucester on February 9th, 1555, he wrote an exposition of Psalm 23. This proves that it did not fail him in the hour of his trial in prison, nor in the prospect of death.
At midnight on December 7th, 1834, at the early age of forty-two, died Edward Irving. His ministerial career had been tempestuous. His doctrines had been more than questionable, and his deposition as minister in consequence thereof broke his heart. Still young in years, his wasted face, whitened hair, broken voice, and restless eye proclaimed him to be a dying man. His last utterances could not at first be understood by the bedside watchers, till at length it was discovered that he was repeating Psalm 23. The historian records, “It was with something like its old power that the dying voice swelled as it uttered the glorious conviction, ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’”
Sir William Hamilton (1788-1856) was a philosopher of colossal learning. Like all men of true learning, it enabled him to understand the extent of his ignorance. The further one penetrates into the knowledge to be gained from God’s creation the more one is impressed with a sense of one’s tremendous ignorance. The true philosopher feels like a little child. Yet it is not the knowledge of nature that will meet a man’s need on a death-bed. He needs revelation. So the historian has finely said of Hamilton, “The insuperable limitation of human knowledge was the essence of his teaching; yet it was on the mysteries which lay beyond the barrier of the unknowable that he reposed at the moment of his death”—unknowable, it is true, by human research, yet well known to faith. “Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me,” were the simple yet sublime words that comforted the great philosopher as death drew near.
Alexander Duff was the first missionary sent out to India by the Presbyterian Church of Scotland. His name is deservedly held in reverence for his devoted service to Christ. A man of extraordinary eloquence and of statesmanlike ability, his zeal carried him far in the service of God. In 1849 he travelled on horseback from Simla to Kotghur. His road lay along a narrow bridle-path, cut out from the face of the precipitous rock. He was much interested in watching a shepherd. He carried in his hand a long rod, a crook fashioned at one end of it, the other consisting of a heavy iron band. If a sheep wandered too near the precipice, the shepherd would gently catch its hind leg with the crook and draw it back into a place of safety; if a dangerous beast attacked the flock the heavy weighty end was used as an instrument of defence. Thus was illustrated the verse, “Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”
There gather round this wonderful psalm sacred memories, echoing down the centuries. What thoughts, the result of thrilling experiences, must have been David’s, as he, the Shepherd-King, wrote it. To adequately speak of these things it would be necessary to write a volume, so wonderful is the psalm. From his day to ours what help it has furnished!
And it looks as if we should need its comfort and stay more than ever as war-clouds thicken and social cataclysm threatens. But in every combination of circumstances the God of Psalm 23 is sufficient for His people.