“Look from the top.” (Song of Solomon 4:8.)
CRUSHING weights give the Christian wings. It seems like a contradiction in terms, but it is a blessed truth. David out of some bitter experience cried: “Oh, that I had wings like a dove! Then would I fly away, and be at rest” (Psa. 55:6). But before he finished this meditation he seems to have realized that his wish for wings was a realizable one. For he says, “Cast thy burden upon Jehovah, and he will sustain thee.”
The word “burden” is translated in the Bible margin, “what he (Jehovah) hath given thee.” The saints’ burdens are God-given; they lead him to “wait upon Jehovah,” and when that is done, in the magic of trust, the “burden” is metamorphosed into a pair of wings, and the weighted one “mounts up with wings as eagles.”—Sunday School Times.
One day when walking down the street, On business bent, while thinking hard About the “hundred cares” which seemed Like thunder clouds about to break In torrents, Self-pity said to me: “You poor, poor thing, you have too much To do. Your life is far too hard. This heavy load will crush you soon.” A swift response of sympathy Welled up within. The burning sun Seemed more intense. The dust and noise Of puffing motors flying past With rasping blast of blowing horn Incensed still more the whining nerves, The fabled last back-breaking straw To weary, troubled, fretting mind. “Ah, yes, ‘twill break and crush my life; I cannot bear this constant strain Of endless, aggravating car’s; They are too great for such as I.” So thus my heart condoled itself, “Enjoying misery,” when lo! A “still small voice” distinctly said, “’Twas sent to lift you—not to crush.” I saw at once my great mistake. My place was not beneath the load But on the top! God meant it not That I should carry it. He sent It here to carry me. Full well He knew my incapacity Before the plan was made. He saw A child of His in need of grace And power to serve; a puny twig Requiring sun and rain to grow; An undeveloped chrysalis; A weak soul lacking faith in God. He could not help but see all this And more. And then, with tender thought He placed it where it had to grow— Or die. To lie and cringe beneath One’s load means death, but life and power Await all those who dare to rise above. Our burdens are our wings; on them We soar to higher realms of grace; Without them we must roam for aye On planes of undeveloped faith, (For faith grows but by exercise In circumstance impossible). Oh, paradox of Heaven. The load We think will crush was sent to lift us Up to God! Then, soul of mine, Climb up! for naught can e’er be crushed Save what is underneath the weight. How may we climb! By what ascent Shall we surmount the carping cares Of life! Within His word is found The key which opes His secret stairs; Alone with Christ, secluded there, We mount our loads, and rest in Him.
—Miss Mary Butterfield.