Go, My Chosen Ones

No missionary that ever went to the heathen, fared forth on his way with so gloomy a foreboding, so cheerless a fate. Their miracles, which saved many, protected not themselves; their inspirations, which blessed many, could not bless themselves from every harm and sorrow which patient nature can endure. They are to be placed at the bar of civil law, to be hunted out with religious persecution; against them the tender affections of life are to rise in arms, and the soft and downy scenes of home are to bristle like the iron front of war; the tender hands which are wont to pluck the thorns of sorrow from our feet, are to guide the weapons of their death; of all men they are to be hated for their Lord’s sake; they are to be hunted like the partridge on the mountains, and every refuge upon the earth is to be hidden from their sight.

“Go,” said He,“ My chosen ones, go like the defenceless lamb into the paw of the ravenous wolf: the world thirsteth for your blood, and is in arms against your undefended lives: nevertheless, go. You are without weapons of defence; no bribes are in your hands, nor soft words upon your tongues; and you go in the teeth of hatred, derision, and rage: nevertheless, My children, go.