W. B. Godbey - Enter His Rest

Baptist preachers give, as well as every funeral, powerfully renewed my convictions, keeping me in the attitude
of a chronic mourner, day and night praying God to have mercy and save me. In His good providence, at the age
of sixteen, the Saturday night before the fourth Sunday in November, 1849, (If I am not mistaken as to the date),
I heard that the Baptists were having a glorious revival, which was quite a novelty among them, as this was the
first that I recollect in that neighborhood. So I hastened away to their meeting. On arrival I found the house
packed and even crammed. When I entered the door conviction struck me like a cyclone. It was in every word
sung, prayed and preached. The preacher was a very ordinary, unlearned man but the Holy Ghost had him in
hand and he preached with all the Pentecostal power and fire which I can conceive of their having on that great
and notable day when the Holy Ghost first fell on them at Jerusalem. By the time he wound up, all of my cables
were severed, my hold on the willows broken and I was ready for any and every possible Godward move.
He threw the altar open and it was quickly crowded, your humble servant going forward. While there were
several bright, old-style conversions (and among them my cousin, John Bishop, above mentioned, swept into the
kingdom with shouts), yet my burden was a mountain dragging me down to the bottomless pit heavier than ever
before. About eleven o'clock, on adjournment, the preacher told his brethren to take all the mourners home with
them and keep them through the night and bring them back lest they might be caught by the tempter, fall by the
way and never reach the kingdom, which he assured them they were fast nearing.
A good Baptist brother came, put his arms around me and said, “Boy, my house is your home till you get
religion.” I was a cheap boarder, for I did not eat a bite or sleep a wink, but spent an awful, sleepless night
expecting every moment to drop into Hell. I never in my life was so glad to see the day dawn as when it came
peering in through the clapboard roof of that log-house up in whose garret I was bedded. I arose and dressed, ate
nothing, but went to meeting, finding the house packed and jammed with women, and the men all out-of-doors,
except a few saints who crowded in the nooks and corners. Therefore in my natural timidity I declined to make
an effort to squeeze in. Outside they were talking everywhere, and their silly, foolish jesting, mingled with
ribaldry, obscenity and profanity, grieved my soul so terrifically that I was constrained to run away, as I found
their society absolutely intolerable. I fled to the woods and wandered on through the primeval forest, that
mountain getting heavier incessantly, till I fell beneath my burden, which I could no longer bear.
There prostrate on the ground, crying to God, soliloquies raced through my mind: “Is it possible that after my
baptism in my infancy and my good moral life, which I have lived from the cradle, yet Hell is my doom?” The
real trouble with me was self-righteousness; I was unconsciously depending on my good works, church
membership, preaching father and sainted mother, and the praying Christians to save me. Here I reached a crisis
and a culmination. A panorama passed before me, in which saw all of those Godly people pass away. The
soliloquy came back, my hopes all fled and my doom was sealed. So I reached the point where Calvinistic
theology very beautifully says, “Our justification supervenes, I. e., when we utterly surrender all of our own
resources and confess judgment against ourselves.” Thus my soliloquy proceeded: “O God, I am a wretched,
lost sinner, all my works of righteousness are filthy rags, loathsome and stenchy in Thy sight; and if Thou dost
leave me to drop into Hell, it is all right. I never did deserve anything else.” At that moment I reached an epoch
which I never can forget. That mountain burden rolled away and I found myself leaping for joy.
“Hard was my toil to reach the shore,
Long tossed upon the ocean;
Above me was the thunder's roar,
Beneath the wave's commotion.
“Panting and fainting as for breath,
I knew not help was nigh me,
I cried, Oh, save my soul from death,
Immortal Jesus, save me!
“Then quick as thought I felt Him mine,
My Savior stood before me;
I saw His brightness round me shine,
And shouted Glory! Glory!
“Oh, hallowed spot, oh, sacred hour,