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; Open to Me' "Then I cried out upon him: Cease, Leave me in peace; Fear not that I should crave Aught thou may'st have. Leave me in peace, yea, trouble me no more, Lest I arise and chase thee from my door. What! shall I not be let Alone, that thou dost vex me yet? "But all night long that voice spake urgently-- 'Open to Me.' Still harping in mine ears-- 'Rise, let Me in.' Pleading with tears-- 'Open to Me, that I may come to thee.' While the dew dropp'd, while the dark hours were cold-- 'My feet bleed, see My Face, See My hands bleed that bring thee grace, My heart doth bleed for thee-- Open to Me.' "So, till the break of day; Then died away That voice, in silence as of sorrow; Then footsteps echoing like a sigh Pass'd me by; Lingering footsteps, slow to pass. On the morrow I saw upon the grass Each footprint mark'd in blood, and <i>on my door</i> <i>The mark of blood forevermore</i>."[10] That same voice still comes with a strangely gentle persistence-- "Inasmuch as ye did it Unto one of these my brethren, even these least, Ye did it unto Me. "Inasmuch as ye did it <i>not</i> Unto one of these least, Ye did it <i>not</i> unto Me."[11]