He could not define what he felt, but he did feel. He
could not bear it, and he shut the book, opening it again at the
twenty-second Psalm--the one which the disciples of Jesus called to
mind on the night of the crucifixion. It was one which Mr. Bradshaw
often read, and Zachariah had noted in it a few corrections made in
the translation:
"My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? Our fathers trusted in
Thee; they trusted, and Thou didst deliver them. . . . Be not far
from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help. . . . Be
Thou not far from me, O Lord: O my strength, haste Thee to help me.
. . . Save me from the lion's mouth: and from the horns of the wild
oxen Thou hast answered me."
"From the horns of the wild oxen"--that correction had often been
precious to Zachariah. When at the point of being pinned to the
ground--so he understood it--help had arisen; risen up from the
earth, and might again arise. It was upon the first part of the text
he dwelt now. It came upon him with fearful distinctness that he was
alone--that he could never hope for sympathy from his wife as long as
he lived. Mr. Bradshaw's words that evening recurred to him.
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