I have already explained the picturesque image of the last part of my
text, which demands a little further consideration. There are two
figures presented before us, one dark robed and one bright garmented.
The one is the guest of the night, the other is the guest of the
morning. The verb which occurs in the first clause of the second half of
my text is not repeated in the second, and so the words may be taken in
two ways. They may either express how Joy, the morning guest, comes, and
turns out the evening visitant, or they may suggest how we took Sorrow
in when the night fell, to sit by the fireside, but when morning
dawned--who is this, sitting in her place, smiling as we look at her? It
is Sorrow transfigured, and her name is changed into Joy. Either the
substitution or the transformation may be supposed to be in the
Psalmist's mind.
Both are true. No human heart, however wounded, continues always to
bleed. Some gracious vegetation creeps over the wildest ruin. The
roughest edges are smoothed by time. Vitality asserts itself; other
interests have a right to be entertained and are entertained. The
recuperative powers come into play, and the pang departs and poignancy
is softened. The cutting edge gets blunt on even poisoned spears by the
gracious influences of time. The nightly guest, Sorrow, slips away, and
ere we know, another sits in her place. Some of us try to fight against
that merciful process and seem to think that it is a merit to continue,
by half artificial means, the first moment of pain, and that it is
treason to some dear remembrances to let life have its way, and to-day
have its rights. That is to set ourselves against the dealings of God,
and to refuse to forgive Him for what His love has done for us.
But the other thought seems to me to be even more beautiful, and
probably to be what was in the Psalmist's mind--viz. the transformation
of the evil, Sorrow itself, into the radiant form of Joy. A prince in
rags comes to a poor man's hovel, is hospitably received in the
darkness, and being received and welcomed, in the morning slips off his
rags and appears as he is. Sorrow is Joy disguised.
If it be accepted, if the will submit, if the heart let itself be
untwined, that its tendrils may be coiled closer round the heart of God,
then the transformation is sure to come, and joy will dawn on those who
have done rightly--that is, submissively and thankfully--by their
sorrows. It will not be a joy like what the world calls
joy--loud-voiced, boisterous, ringing with idiot laughter; but it will
be pure, and deep, and sacred, and permanent. A white lily is fairer
than a flaunting peony, and the joy into which sorrow accepted turns is
pure and refining and good.
So, brethren! remember that the richest vintages are grown on the rough
slopes of the volcano, and lovely flowers blow at the glacier's edge;
and all our troubles, big and little, may be converted into gladnesses
if we accept them as God meant them. Only they must be so accepted if
they are to be thus changed.
But there may be some hearts recoiling from much that I have said in
this sermon, and thinking to themselves, 'Ah! there are two kinds of
sorrows. There are those that _can_ be cured, and there are those that
_cannot_. What have you got to say to me who have to bleed from an
immedicable wound till the end of my life?' Well, I have to say
this--look beyond earth's dim dawns to that morning when 'the Sun of
Righteousness shall arise, to them that love His name, with healing in
His wings.' If we have to carry a load on an aching back till the end,
be sure that when the night, which is far spent, is over, and the day
which is at hand hath broken, every raindrop will be turned into a
flashing rainbow when it is smitten by the level light, and every sorrow
rightly borne be represented by a special and particular joy.
Only, brother! if a life is to be spent in His favour, it must be spent
in His fear. And if our cares and troubles and sorrows and losses are to
be transfigured hereafter, then we must keep very near Jesus Christ, who
has promised to us that His joy will remain with us, and that our
sorrows shall be turned into joys. If we trust to Him, the voices that
have been raised in weeping will be heard in gladness, and earth's minor
will be transposed by the great Master of the music into the key of
Heaven's jubilant praise. If only 'we look not at the things seen, but
at the things which are not seen,' then 'our light affliction, which is
but for a moment, will work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal
weight of glory'; and the weight will be no burden, but will bear up
those who are privileged to bear it.
'BE ... FOR THOU ART'
'Be Thou to me a strong Rock, an house of defence to save me. 3. For
Thou art my Rock and my Fortress.'--PSALM xxxi. 2, 3 (R.V.).
It sounds strange logic, 'Be ... for Thou art,' and yet it _is_ the
logic of prayer, and goes very deep, pointing out both its limits and
its encouragements. The parallelism between these two clauses is even
stronger in the original than in our Version, for whilst the two words
which designate the 'Rock' are not identical, their meaning is
identical, and the difference between them is insignificant; one being a
rock of any shape or size, the other being a perpendicular cliff or
elevated promontory. And in the other clause, 'for a house of defence to
save me,' the word rendered 'defence' is the same as that which is
translated in the next clause 'fortress.' So that if we were to read
thus: 'Be Thou a strong Rock to me, for a house, a fortress, for Thou
art my Rock and my Fortress,' we should get the whole force of the
parallelism. Of course the main idea in that of the 'Rock,' and
'Fortress' is only an exposition of one phase of the meaning of that
metaphor.