Once more he obeyed, and he opened his eyes on a new glory
greater than any of which he had ever dreamed. The task had been
a hard one. The "big stone" had been stubborn, but it had been
broken, and not long after the noontide of his life the tired
worker was called home.
They laid his poor, worn body up on the hill above the river,
beside the bodies of the Christians he had loved so well. And the
soft Formosan grass grew over his grave, the winds roared about
it, and the river and the sea sang his requiem.
Gallant Kai Bok-su! As he rests up there on his wind-swept
height, there are hearts in the valleys and on the plains of his
beloved Formosa and in his far-off native land that are aching
for him. And sometimes to these last comes the question "Was it
well?" Was it well that he should wear out that splendid life in
such desperate toil among heathen that hated and reviled him? And
from every part of north Formosa, sounding on the wind, comes
many an answer.
Up from the damp rice-fields, where the farmer goes to and fro in
the gray dawn, arises a song:
I'm not ashamed to own my Lord,
Or to defend his cause.
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