Where showers fall most, there the grass is greenest. I suppose the fogs and mists of Ireland make it "the Emerald Isle"; and whenever you find great fogs of trouble, and mists of sorrow, you always find emerald green hearts; full of the beautiful verdure of the comfort and love of God.
O Christian, do not thou be saying, "Where are the swallows gone? They are gone; they are dead."
They are not dead; they have skimmed the purple sea, and gone to a far-off land; but they will be back again by and by.
Child of God, say not the flowers are dead; say not the winter has killed them, and they are gone.
Ah, no! though winter hath coated them with the ermine of its snow; they will put up their heads again, and will be alive very soon.
Say not, child of God, that the sun is quenched, because the cloud hath hidden it. Ah, no; he is behind there, brewing summer for thee; for when he cometh out again, he will have made the clouds fit to drop in April showers, all of them mothers of the sweet May flowers.
And oh! above all, when thy God hides His face, say not that He hath forgotten thee.
He is but tarrying a little while to make thee love Him better; and when He cometh, thou shalt have joy in the Lord, and shalt rejoice with joy unspeakable.
Waiting exercises our grace; waiting tries our faith; therefore, wait on in hope; for though the promise tarry, it can never come too late.
~C. H. Spurgeon~