At the close of a dark and gloomy day, I lay
resting on my couch as the deeper night drew on; and though all was
bright within my cozy room, some of the external darkness seemed to have
entered into my soul and obscured its spiritual vision. Vainly I tried
to see the hand which I knew held mine, and guided my fog-enveloped feet
along a steep and slippery path of suffering.
In sorrow of heart I
asked, 'Why does my Lord thus deal with His child? Why does He so often
send sharp and bitter pain to visit me? Why does He permit lingering
weakness to hinder the sweet service I long to render to His poor
servants?'
These fretful questions were quickly answered, and
through a strange language; no interpreter was needed save the conscious
whisper of my heart.
For a while silence reigned in the little room,
broken only by the crackling of the oak log burning in the fireplace.
Suddenly I heard a sweet, soft sound, a little, clear, musical note,
like the tender trill of a robin beneath my window.
What can it be? Surely no bird can be singing out there at this time of the year and night.
Again came the faint, plaintive notes, so sweet, so
melodious, yet mysterious enough to provoke our wonder. My friend exclaimed, 'It comes from the log on the fire!' The fire was letting
loose the imprisoned music from the old oak's inmost heart!
Perchance he had garnered up this song in the days
when all was well with him, when birds twittered merrily on his branches, and the soft sunlight flecked his tender leaves with gold. But
he had grown old since then, and hardened; ring after ring of knotty
growth had sealed up the long-forgotten melody, until the fierce tongues
of the flames came to consume his callousness, and the vehement heat of
the fire wrung from him at once a song and a sacrifice.
Ah, thought
I, when the fire of affliction draws songs of praise from us, then
indeed we are purified, and our God is glorified!
Perhaps some of us are like this old oak log, cold,
hard, insensible; we should give forth no melodious sounds, were it not
for the fire which kindles around us, and releases notes of trust in
Him, and cheerful compliance with His will.
As I mused the fire burned, and my soul found sweet comfort in the parable so strangely set forth before me.
Singing in the fire! Yes, God helping us, if that
is the only way to get harmony out of these hard apathetic hearts, let
the furnace be heated seven times hotter than before.
~Mrs Charles Spurgeon~
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