dly a door that would not
open to Him. He might not be any better understood in New York than He was
in Jerusalem, but the doors of the wealthy would quickly open to Him. I
mean the Christian wealthy, the Church wealthy; other doors, too, no
doubt, but these surely. He would have a great welcome.

And I suppose, too, that if in some wealthy home on Fifth Avenue or
Madison Avenue He were to ask His host to give some large sum, a million
dollars or ten millions, for sending the Gospel to China or Japan His
request would likely be granted. It seems to me rather probable that it
would. Well, how can it be put plainly enough that He does come to our
doors, rich, and less rich, and poor. He's at the front door now, knocking
and asking our help.

In these heathen peoples of His, <i>Jesus</i> comes to us. And we have been
giving Him--shall I say it very softly for sheer shame?--we have given,
not all, but most of us, what is practically the loose change in our
trousers' pocket; not actually, of course; sometimes even that. We have
spent more on everything else. We have made up boxes of cast-off clothes
and old shoes for--<i>Jesus!</i> This has been a large part of our answer. Is
it any wonder the hot blood sends the color climbing into our cheeks at
the thought, and that we instinctively seek for some explanation that will
soften the hard rub of the truth!

I found a bit of a poem in a magazine some time ago that caught fire as I
read it. It was written, I judge, in a personal sense; but it came to me
at once with a wider meaning; and it persists in so coming at every
reading of it.

In this poem there is some one knocking at a door for admission, and a
voice without calls,

"'Friend, open to <i>Me</i>.' Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls;
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
What art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry, should feed,
Or stranger, lodge thee here?

But the voice persists--

"'Friend, My feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.'
'I will not open; trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not arise and open unto thee.

And still the pleading,

"'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My face
And cry for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now;
Ope