I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait for the Lord.
Psalm 27:13-14
Come, ye sinners, poor and needy,
Weak and wounded, sick and sore
Jesus ready stands to save you,
Full of pity, love and pow'r.
I will arise and go to Jesus,
He will embrace me in His arms
In the arms of my dear Savior,
Oh, there are ten thousand charms.
Come, ye weary, heavy-laden,
Lost and ruined by the fall
If you tarry till you're better,
You will never come at all.
Joseph Hart -1750
There are times when we seem to be simply crushed with the trouble laid on us; and, strangely enough it is not always the great trial, the death-stroke, which takes the treasure of a clinging heart from us. But there are seasons when outward matters practically are much the same as when we could look at things brightly, and enjoy them, even; when no special sorrow or anxiety presses, hopes and fears and anticipations are all much as before; and yet there is a dense cloud of weary, clogging depression on our souls. Everything seems grey, chill, and disheartening; we find no spirit, no “savour” in anything. The cloudy days chills us, but the sunshine hardly gladdens us; solitude is full of carking, weary painfulness, yet we shrink from society, and are oppressed with the feeling that it is “nothing” to those who pass by, all unconscious of our suffering.
Familiar places, books we have habitually delighted in, occupations we longed to have time to pursue, have lost all zest. We cannot write freely to the most sympathetic of correspondents for fear we should break out into fretful complaining, or lest they should entirely fail to understand our trouble. The interests, practical, artistic, literary, political, ecclesiastical, or even domestic, which were so keen a while since, are all pale and sickly. “Cui bono!” is the perpetual rejoinder of the weary spirit, and we shrink more and more within our shell, more and more utterly miserable.
Now there are several remedies to be taken promptly, even if the relief they give be slow. First of all, say to yourself that He Who was constrained to cry out, “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” more than knows every iota of your trouble; knows it, sees it, watches it, and the precise chastening, healing discipline it is meant to work in your soul, pities and loves you the while; in short, “in all your affliction He is afflicted,” and you were never less alone than in this dreary, heartsick, languid season of chilling desolation.
Take any little “hold-byes,” as the old Covenanters called them, that happen to touch you: “My time is in Thy Hand;“ “When my spirit was in heaviness Thou knewest my path;” “Teach me to do the thing that pleaseth Thee;” “O tarry thou the Lord’s leisure; be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart, and put thou thy trust in the Lord.” The words may have lost the cheering reality they once had; but never mind, go on repeating them, striving to realize them, and even as the soft dew sinks imperceptibly into the ground, and makes the tender grass to spring up and grow, we know not how, so the Spirit of the Comforter will sink into your heart, and in an hour when you think not, you will feel His ineffable grace and hope stealing over you. It may not be now, or speedily-leave that to Him Who cares for you as not even your fond mother knew how to care -but come it will. Only hold on with both hands to that certain hope, and let the Father’s Love, the Son’s Grace, and the Holy Spirit’s Fellowship work in you till patience has her perfect work.
H.L. Sydney Lear
Weariness-1884
