THE LOT OF THE RIGHTEOUS.
“We know that all things work together for good to them
that love God.”
—Rom. viii. 28.
Yea,—“all
things work together for their good!”
How can this glorious truth be understood?
'Tis like Jehovah's throne, where marvellous light
Hides in thick darkness from created sight:
The first-born seraph, trembling while he sings,
Views its veil'd lustre through his shadowing wings;
Or, if he meets, by unexpected grace,
The beatific vision, face to face,
Shrinks from perfection which no eye can see,
Entranced in the abyss of Deity.
Yea,—“all
things work together for their good!”
How shall the mystery be understood?
From man's primeval curse are these set free,
Sin slain, death swallow'd up in victory?
The body from corruption so refined,
'Tis but the immortal vesture of the mind?
The mind from folly so to wisdom won,
'Tis a pure sunbeam of the eternal sun?
Ah! no, no;—all that troubles life is theirs,
Hard toil, sharp suffering, slow-consuming cares;
To mourn and weep; want raiment, food, and rest,
Brood o'er the unutter'd anguish of the breast;
To love, to hope, desire, possess, in vain;
Wrestle with weakness, weariness, and pain,
Struggle with fell disease from breath to breath,
And every moment die a moment's death.
This is their portion, this the common lot;
But they have sorrows which the world knows not:
—Their conflicts with that world, its fair false joys,
Ensnaring riches, and delusive toys;
Its love, its hatred; its neglect and scorn;
With self-abhorrence harder to be borne;
The pangs of conscience, when God's holy law,
Through Sinai's thunders, strikes them dumb with awe;
Passions disorder'd, when insane desires
Blow the rank embers of unhallow'd fires;
Evils that lurk in ambush at the heart,
And shoot their arrows thence through every part;
Harsh roots of bitterness; light seeds of sin,
Oft springing up, and stirring strife within;
Pride, like the serpent, vaunting to deceive,
As with his subtilty beguiling Eve;
Ambition, like the great red dragon, hurl'd
Sheer from heaven's battlements to this low world,
Boundless in rage, as limited in power,
Ramping abroad, and roaring to devour:
—These, which blithe worldlings laugh at and contemn,
Are worse than famine, sword, and fire to them.
Nor these alone, for neither few nor small
The trials rising from their holy call:
—The Spirit's searching, proving, cleansing flames;
Duty's demands, the Gospel's sovereign claims;
Stern self-denial counting all things loss
For Christ, and daily taking up the cross;
The broken heart, or heart that will not break,—
That aches not, or that cannot cease to ache;
Doubts and misgivings, lest when storms are past
They make sad shipwreck of the faith at last:
—These, and a thousand forms of fear and shame,
Bosom-temptations, that have not a name,
But have a nature, felt through flesh and bone,
Through soul and spirit,—felt by them alone;
—These, these the Christian pilgrims sore distress,
Like thorns and briars of the wilderness;
These keep them humble, keep them in the path,
As those that flee from everlasting wrath.
Yet, while their hearts and hopes are fix'd above,
As those who lean on everlasting love,
On faithfulness, which, though heaven's pillars bend
And earth's base fail, uphold them to the end;—
By them, by them alone, 'tis understood
How all things work together for their good.
Would'st thou too understand?—behold I show
The perfect way,—Love
God
, and thou shalt know.
