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“It is.”
“But I won’t! I’ll do without your God! I don’t want
to go to heaven, only to die!”
“Then pass on to that horrible place of torment, where
those who are damned for all eternity are cast about on the
boiling waves of an endless sea of sulphur, where their limbs
are racked by agony, and their hot mouths gasp for air,
among the flames that flicker over the surface. I see their
bodies drifting like white gulls on the sea, yea, like a
frothing foam in a storm, and their shrieks are like the noise of
the earth when the earthquake tears it, and their anguish is
without a name. Oh, would that my prayers might save thee
from it, miserable man! But grace has hidden its
countenance, and the sun of mercy is set forever.”
“Then help me, pastor, help me!” groaned Ulrik
Christian. “What are you a parson for, if you can’t help me?
Pray, for God’s sake, pray! Are there no prayers in your
mouth? Or give me your wine and bread, if there’s
salvation in ’em as they say! Or is it all a lie—a confounded lie?
I’ll crawl to the feet of your God like a whipped boy, since
He’s so strong—it is not fair—He’s so mighty, and we’re
so helpless! Make Him kind, your God, make Him kind
to me! I bow down—I bow down—I can do no more!”
“Pray!”
“Ay, I’ll pray, I’ll pray all you want—indeed!” he
knelt in bed and folded his hands. “Is that right?” he asked,
looking toward Pastor Jens. “Now, what shall I say?”
The pastor made no answer.
For a few moments Ulrik Christian knelt thus, his large,
bright, feverish eyes turned upward. “There are no words,
pastor,” he whimpered. “Lord Jesu, they ’re all gone,” and
he sank down, weeping.
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