of Christianity—to which vocation I had already at fifteen dedicated my life.
Thus as early as fifteen, I was frequently called upon to lead the congregation in extemporaneous prayer. Usually my key-note (for my private prayers as well) was my life's motto, which I adopted at fifteen:
"My times are in Thy hand,
Whatever they may be;
Pleasing or painful,
Dark or bright,
As best may seem to Thee!"
Tears would course down my cheeks and my voice tremble with emotion. I never failed to remember that I had the greatest need of all for the rest for which I pleaded and which Jesus has promised to give "the oppressed and heavy laden."
After service, all other youths escorted a girl home and lingered over the gate for blissful conversation. But I had the habit of making my solitary way to a desolate abandoned graveyard whose latest headstone was set up in the twenties of the nineteenth century.
Behold my Garden of Gethsemane, where not merely once, but once each week, I would throw myself on a grass-covered grave, writhe in an agony of moans, and even shriek. All my muscles seemed to be rigid, and my fists were clinched. I would dig my fingernails into my palms, and throw my arms about wildly.
"Change my nature, God," I would cry. "This very moment. By a miracle. Give me the mind and powers of a man.
