Abraham Lincoln was legendary for his honesty, but that is not the thing that impresses me most. Rather, it was his compassion. An elderly man whose son had been convicted of gross crimes came to plead with Lincoln for leniency. Since the boy was the man’s only son, Lincoln was sympathetic. However, he had just received a telegram from a military officer named Butler: “Mr. President, I beg you not to interfere with the court-maritals of this army. You will destroy all discipline in the army.” Lincoln handed the old man the telegram, then watched the disappointment in his face as he read it. Lincoln suddenly blurted out: “Bulter or no Butler, here goes!” He wrote out an order and handed it to the father: “Job Smith is not to be shot until further orders from me. Abraham Lincoln.”
“Why,” the father said, “I thought it was going to be a pardon. You may order him to be shot next week.”
“My old friend,” said Lincoln, “evidently you do not understand my character. If your son is never shot until an order comes from me, he will live to be as old as Methuselah.”
On at least one occasion a soldier who had no family came to Lincoln and requested that he be able to die in the place of another soldier with several children. Lincoln allowed him to substitute himself for the other man. In Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, on the headstone of a Civil War soldier appear the words: “Abraham Lincoln’s substitute.” With thousands falling in Lincoln’s place on the battlefield, he chose to honor one soldier and make him his substitute, as a symbol of all the soldiers dying so that others might live.
We can rejoice that even though “we have left God’s paths to follow our own … the Lord laid on [Jesus] the guilt and sins of us all.” Jesus died as our substitute. “It was our weakness he carried; it was our sorrows that weight him down … He was wounded and crushed for our sins. He was beaten that we might have peace. He was whipped, and we were healed!” (Isa. 53:4, 5, NLT). Thank You, Jesus, for being my substitute!
Daniel R. Guild
The Best News Ever, p.58
