THE battle was over. Darkness expanded its misty veil over the
battle-field. Victory had been won by neither army, but there were left
a large number of dead and wounded.
The ambulances were sent out with help for those who fell in the fight.
Where moans were heard, they went, raised the wounded limb a trifle,
asked sympathetic questions and bandaged the wound as well as could be
done in a hurry; then the wounded were taken to the field hospital.
But if one looked more carefully, other figures were discernible; half
hidden by the darkness they sneaked about among the wounded and dead.
Who were they?
It didn't look as though they heeded the moans of the dying, nor did
they raise them to carry them off to the field hospital. What were they
doing, then?
_They were plundering those who fell_, taking from them their little
articles of value: A hideous thing, truly a deed of darkness! Who would
have believed that anyone could have the heart to plunder the dying.
You and I would not do such a thing. We become intensely indignant and
disgusted when told of such heartlessness. "God, I thank thee, that I
am not as the other men are, extortioners----"
No, on that battlefield where the wounded lie, having been hit by
shells and maimed by swords, we do not go in order to plunder and loot.
That is true enough.
But--alas, there is a "but" about it.
The world is a huge battlefield. Right and left we see about us the
_wounded_ who are moaning and suffering from pain; they are sighing for
just a little aid, a kind word, a gentle smile. They need succor--they
need being taken to the hospital. They still have a remnant of the
sense of honor left. There is a possibility that they may right
themselves; that they may be able to qualify as good fighters in the
next skirmish--perhaps to conquer where now they have suffered defeat.
_But_ instead of the gentle smile, the kind word, and the little
aid--we took away from them whatever was left and let them lie where
they were. We deprived them of the last remnant of honor, extinguished
the last faint glimmer of hope. The bruised reed was broken. The
smoking flax was quenched.
On Life's vast battlefield you and I may, after all, have taken part
in the plundering of the wounded; or we may have gone by just like the
priest and the Levite. At least we have not always done as did the
Samaritan: Bound up their wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and brought
them to an inn!
Old Dr. Bengel says: "I am kept constantly busy by reading proof upon
myself."
Let us do likewise. Then we will be better and better enabled to heed
the moans of the wounded on the vast battlefield of Life, and to bring
them to the inn, to the church of the Lord where there is healing for
all wounds. This is our task toward the wounded, and it was that which
was in the mind of Jesus when He said:
"Go, and do thou likewise!"