thing hasn't yet shaken off the harshness you have been clothing it with.
Please notice the second word of that sentence--"My." "Take _My_ Yoke."
May I say gently but frankly that I would not surrender the control of my
life to any of you who are listening so kindly. And I surely would not ask
that I should be the autocrat of any of your lives. But--when--_Jesus_
comes along. The Man with the marvelous face all torn and scarred, but
with that great, soft, shining light. I do not know just how all of you
feel. I can guess how some of you feel. But I know one man who cannot
respond too quickly and eagerly. The only thing to do is to make the will
as strong as it can be made, and then to use all of its strength in
surrendering eagerly to this matchless Man Jesus. Doubtless many of you
know fully that same eagerness, and maybe more.

I remember a simple story that twined its clinging tendril lingers about
my heart. It was of a woman whose long years had ripened her hair, and
sapped her strength. She was a true saint in her long life of devotion to
God. She knew the Bible by heart, and would repeat long passages from
memory. But as the years came the strength went, and with it the memory
gradually went too, to her grief. She seemed to have lost almost wholly
the power to recall at will what had been stored away.

But one precious bit still stayed. She would sit by the big sunny window
of the sitting room in her home, repeating over that one bit, as though
chewing a delicious titbit, "I know whom I have believed and am persuaded
that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that
day." By and by part of that seemed to slip its hold, and she would
quietly be repeating, "that which I have committed to Him."

The last few weeks as the ripened old saint hovered about the border land
between this and the spirit world her feebleness increased. Her loved