What an artlessly simple statement Luke makes in these few words, and yet how full of significance. Of course, all the prisoners would know what had happened earlier in the day, when the two special prisoners in the inner ward had been brought into custody. Every one of them would know that when the Roman lictors had done their work the two prisoners' backs would be a complete mass of bleeding wounds and discoloured bruises. And if any articulate sounds did pass the sufferers' lips, they would expect only groans and curses. Most men the world over, when every moment caused pain, would give vent to their resentment with such groans, even if it did not constrain them to call down imprecations of woe upon their torturers. Added to the physical injuries, and swollen sores, they were thrust into the stocks, so that little or no movement of the extremities was possible to them. At the very best, their position was as undesirable as could well be. Added to this physical distress would be the dankness and the darkness of their cell. Scarce a breath of air and not one single ray of light would tend to lighten the damp musty odour of the cell. When the two prisoners' position is summarised thus, it would seem that this wicked old earth had only one penalty more severe it could inflict. Short of depriving them of life, the passions and inhumanity of man had heaped upon them an avalanche of sorrows and woes. To the spite of foes had been added the injury of an unjust trial, against which most men would have severely chafed. Thus, to the physical distress must be added the possible sufferings of the mind.

What a conquest of mind over matter, of the spirit over the body, of faith over actual reality occurred in that inner prison cell that night! Like others of the same little band, they counted it a privilege to suffer for the Name of the Lord, for they knew that in this suffering they were "filling up the measure" of suffering allotted to the Christ of God. There is indeed the "filling" of a cup, as there is also the "drinking" of a cup; and in the Way of God they who drink from the one, contribute a little quota to the filling of the other. Hence, there was no room for vain regrets or groans or maledictions in that little cell. "Paul and Silas prayed", then, when the voice of prayer came to an end, the accents of praise to God swept through the confines of the cell, and out into the larger outer ward. "And the prisoners heard them." What would they think of such men? Perhaps first feelings would be of annoyance if the singing had roused them from their slumbers, but soon they had reason enough to listen and hear.

The prison itself began to shake; the doors were flung widely ajar, and even their own chains fell off! What a night that was, as Heaven answered both prayer and praise! The fortitude of two stout hearts, rising up above dismal circumstances, set in motion the wheels of Providence, and great things ensued.

From this episode sprang the nucleus of the Philippian Church ‑ perhaps the dearest church of all to one of our prisoners in the stocks! Truly it was a mysterious way in which Divine Providence that night performed its wonderful work. It planted its footsteps in the quaking earth, and rode upon the repentant attitudes of men, because two valiant followers of the Lamb had risen up superior to their woeful circumstances.

What lesson can we learn from this episode?

First, let us be reminded that the God of Paul and Silas is our God too. He knew full well, even though midnight darkness lay around, where his faithful children were confined. No darkness could hide them from his sight. In our nights of sorrow or alarm, that is a great thought to take to heart. No curtain of night can intrude and hide God's child from God's watchful eye. The darkness is as the light to him, and cannot intercept his view of those on whom he has set his love. When terror stalks the night sky or dangers multiply, it would be far more to the glory of God if the neighbours hear of our peace of heart and our trust in God, than if we moan and grumble and lament. The difference between the two sets of prisoners that night lay in this: Paul and Silas knew the way of God, the others did not! That knowledge was a strong controlling power which conquered human fear and fancy, and helped to transmute suffering into Christ-like fortitude. It helped the followers of the Lord to take the episode in the curriculum of the school of Christ, and to make the members of the body the servant of the new mind. This is the fibre that martyrs are made of, when it has been sublimated by fire and ordeal. And it is in the little hole-in-the-corner episodes of life where it is done ‑ in the darkness of our prison cells.

The best commentary upon the power of God in the heart is a calm, cool deportment in face of danger, which rises from the assurance that God is our Father, and that we are his children and that we are being kept in the hollow of his hand. We may not all be able to sing praises in the dead of night, but we can all pray, and let the knowledge thus go forth that we have been with Jesus and learned of him. Other prisoners will then also hear.

TH