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The Amazing Grace of God
By Dr. Henry T. Hudson
Vol 2/ No.7/Oct 2001

As I look back over my life, especially my teenage years in the East side of London, the words of John Newton's famous hymn come to mind.

Amazing grace! how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

'T was grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed!

How well I remember that hour when first I believed. As difficult as it might be for some people to imagine, even though I lived in a so-called Christian nation, I was totally ignorant of God's great love and of His wonderful salvation. My whole life, prior to that unforgettable moment, was wrapped up in a peculiar sub-cultural value system within that unique East London world which Cockneys alone seem to appreciate. Then, the unexpected happened, a minor accident sent me through the doors of the Mildmay Hospital.

Only the Lord knows what would have happened to my life had not His hand of providence led me to that hospital. I had dropped out of school at age eleven, and shortly after had gotten mixed up with bad company. What this could have led to came home to me with great force several years later, when I learned that almost every one of my earlier friends and acquaintances had run afoul of the law; not a few of them ending up "serving porridge" in Wormwood Scrubs.

I had injured my fingers on a woodworking machine, which was no big deal because such accidents were quite common in that part o London. However, I remember very clearly thinking to myself that the emergency room would soon take care of my little problem, and I would quickly be released. It was a Friday and I had some rather special plans for that weekend. I did wonder how on earth I would be able to play snooker that night and the next day, for this game had come to assume a prominent place in my life. I had recently won the All-London Boy's championship. I remember consoling my self with the thought that at least I could still gamble at cards on Sunday sitting there in the emergency room, all I could do was look around at the other patients, and pass the time reading and rereading the various Scripture texts all over the four walls. This exercise was received with mixed emotions. I could hardly help but wonder what kind of hospital would plaster Bible verse everywhere. If anything, they made me uncomfortable, and spurred my desire to get treated and released.

Before long, to my great dismay, I was informed that my injury would necessitate an operation. My first recollections after recuperating from the effects of the anesthetic were not pleasant. I had been vomiting, and who knows what words had escaped my lips. Then, my consciousness returning, I recall a nurse approached and gave me a "hymn-book!" and a "Bible!" I remember thinking, "Somebody has got to be joking!"

That's the way it was or three days, both morning and evening: "injections", "hymns", and "Gospel preaching". Nobody was joking. These people were very serious. Oh yes, one other thing, there were once again Scripture texts, only this time is greater abundance, painted in bold letters above every bed all around the ward. What a place! How could anyone get up to any devilry in such a "holy" hospital? Where there's a will there's usually a way. I managed to conspire with another patient, Harry Hepdon, to generate much fun in ridiculing the dear nurses, and in trying to embarrass them.

Monday morning arrived, and it was time for my discharge. I was escorted to a small room near the entrance to the ward where the plaster on my arm and hand would be removed. The task took a long time, but not a minute was wasted. Sister Muriel Jamison, the head nurse of the men's ward, not only worked on my arm, she worked also on my soul. She patiently persisted in proclaiming the wonderful redeeming love of God. She wanted me to know that He was "not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance" (2peter 3:9). I fought and resisted her invitations to receive Jesus Christ as my own personal Savior. In the back of my mind I knew very well what would mean a complete change of lifestyle for me. Yes, I knew very well that I was a sinner, but a great reluctance gripped my heart. Yet, the more she shared what Jesus Christ had done for me, the more the conviction grew that she spoke the truth, and that I needed His salvation.

At sister Muriel's suggestion, in faltering words, this once proud arrogant young man knelt down, confessing himself to be a sinner, asking the Lord Jesus to save him. Yes, indeed, how well I remember that hour when first I believed. God's amazing saving grace touched my soul and I became a new man.

Sister Muriel not only led me to take this first step of faith, but she led me in two other steps that pointed me in the right direction for my future Christian life. First of all, she urged me to go out into the ward, and to tell Harry Hepdon what had happened. The second thing she did was to make sure that I was put in contact with an evangelical church, namely, East London Tabernacle. Both things had their humorous side. Of all people I dreaded having to tell that I had been converted and had changed sides was my accomplice in devilment. My fear was needless, for as I walked down the ward toward him, he looked up, pointed his finger, and exclaimed in a loud voice, "No! No! Not you!" Apparently, my face told the whole story. Then, that first Sunday in Church, how the heads turned as I walked down the aisle, full of my new found joy, but dresses in outlandish "Spivish" clothes. What an incongruous sight! Yes, many of my friends did laugh at my stammering attempts to explain what it meant to be Christian. A few not only ridiculed, but threatened to reject my friendship if I continued "preaching" to them. As sad as these experiences were, I was more than compensated by the love and friendship of One who would never fail me nor forsake me (Hebrews 13:5). The hymn writer has expressed my sentiments well.

Loved with everlasting love, Led by grace that love to know;
Spirit, breathing from above, Thou hast taught me it is so!
Oh, this full and perfect peace! Oh, this transport all divine!
In a love which cannot cease, I am His, and He is mine.

Fifty years have now passed since I first believed. Time and space do not allow the recounting of the exceeding greatness of the blessings since that hour. Among the most precious are the many souls that I have had the privilege of leading to Jesus Christ. In the early days, there were a few friends and also my own family who took the step of faith. Then, during my two years in the Royal Military Police, a dozen or more fellow servicemen also took the step, some of whom to this day are in full time Christian work in various parts of the world.

Following my military service, the Lord opened one door after another, helping me surmount enormous obstacles. He made it possible for me to attend a Bible College, university, and seminary. I served in the pastorate, on the mission field, and also as a teacher. Today, as a "retire," I am as busy as ever in pulpit supply, conference speaking, and counseling pastors, Besides these things, I have a writing ministry which draws on my knowledge and experience, and endeavors to promote faithfulness to the cause of the Gospel, and to the authoritative inerrant Word of God. What the future holds I do not know, but I do know Who holds the future. Could there be any greater confidence in life than to know "that he who hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ" (Philippians 1:6)? Or, to know that "it is God who worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure (Philippians 2:3) what greater privilege could there be than that of being an ambassador for Jesus Christ (2 cor 5:20)? Could there possibly be any greater joy than proclaiming the Gospel of the grace of God, and witnessing the transforming power of that Gospel in countless numbers of lives?

Where did all this begin for me? It began in some rather unpretentious buildings, nestled in the crowded streets of the East Side of London, known as the Mildmay Mission Hospital. There I was treated with a spiritual medicine which not only gave me new life here an now, but which provided the confident expectation of life with Christ throughout the ages to come.