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The John Newton Story
By Lisa Colwell
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Who am I?
I was born in 1725, and I died 1807. The only godly
influence
in my life, as far back as I can remember, was my mother, whom I had for only
seven years. When she left my life through death, I was virtually an orphan. My
father remarried, sent me to a strict military school, where the severity of discipline
almost broke my back.
I couldn't stand it any longer, and I left in rebellion at
age of ten. One year later, deciding that I would never
enter formal education again, I became a seaman apprentice, hoping
somehow to step into my father's trade and learn at least the ability to
skillfully navigate a ship.
†By and by, through a process of time, I
slowly gave myself over to the
†devil. And I determined that I would
sin to my fill without restraint, now that
†the righteous lamp of my life had gone
out. I did that until my days in the
†military service, where again
discipline worked hard against me, but I
†further rebelled. My spirit would not
break, and I became increasingly
†more and more a rebel. Because of a
number of things that I disagreed with in
†the military, I finally deserted, only
to be captured like a common criminal and
†beaten publicly several times.
†After enduring the punishment, I again
fled. I entertained thoughts of
†suicide on my way to Africa, deciding that
would be the place I could
†get farthest from anyone that knew me.
And again I made a pact with the
†devil to live for him. Somehow, though
a process of events, I got in touch with
†a Portuguese slave trader, and I lived in
his home. His wife, who was
†brimming with hostility, took a lot out
on me. She beat me, and I ate like a dog
†on the floor of the home. If I refused
to do that, she would whip me with a
†lash. I fled penniless, owning only the
clothes on my back, to the
†shoreline of Africa where I built a
fire, hoping to attract a ship that was
†passing by.
†The skipper thought that I had gold or
slaves or ivory to sell and was
†surprised because I was a skilled
navigator. And it was there that I
†virtually lived for a long period of
time. It was a slave ship. It was
†not uncommon for as many as six hundred
blacks from Africa to be in the hold
†of the ship, down below, being taken to
America. I went through all sorts
†of narrow escapes with death only a hairbreadth
away on a number of
†occasions.
†
One time I opened some crates of rum and got everybody on
the crew
†drunk. The skipper, incensed with my
actions, beat me, threw me down below, and I
†lived on stale bread and sour
vegetables for an unendurable amount of time. He
†brought me above to beat me again, and
I fell overboard. Because I
†couldn't swim, he harpooned me to get
me back on the ship. And I lived with the
†scar in my side, big enough for me to
put my fist into, until the day of my
†death.
†On board, I was inflamed with fever. I
was enraged with the humiliation.
†A storm broke out, and I wound up again
in the hold of the ship, down
†among the pumps. To keep the ship
afloat, I worked along as a servant of the
†slaves. There, bruised and confused,
bleeding, diseased, I was the epitome of
†the degenerate man. I remembered the
words of my mother. I cried out to
†God †the only way I knew, calling upon His grace and His mercy to
deliver me, and
†upon His son to save me. The only
glimmer of light I would find was in a
†crack in the ship in the floor above
me, and I looked up to it and screamed for
†help. God heard me.
†Thirty-one years passed, I married a childhood
sweetheart. I entered
†the ministry. In every place that I
served, rooms had to be added to the
†building to handle the crowds that came
to hear the gospel that was presented and
†the story of God's grace in my life. My
tombstone above my head reads, "Born
†1725, died 1807. A clerk, once an infidel
and libertine, a servant of
†slaves in Africa, was by the rich mercy
of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,
†preserved, restored, pardoned, and
appointed to preach the faith he once
†long labored to destroy." I
decided before my death to put my life's story
†in verse. And that verse has become a
hymn.
†My name? John Newton.
The hymn? "Amazing Grace."
Never judge a
man until the hour after his last breath.
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