"Come unto Me all you that labor and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest."
"Take therefore no thought for the morrow--for the morrow
shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof." Matt. 6:34
Who does not long for some Hospice from which to
contemplate, calmly and undismayed, the veiled and shrouded morrow? The
present may have its anxieties; but in the case of many, probably most, it
is the unsolved riddle of the future that presses most heavily. That turning
in the gorge I cannot see. Will the rushing stream be increased in volume?
Are there no bridges to span its headlong course, no boulders even to afford
a safe footing?
"Come unto Me," says He who was Himself the
Pilgrim of pilgrims in earth's Valley of Humiliation. In the midst of these
anxious forecastings, "I will give you rest," rest, first of all, in the
very thought which engenders these forebodings--that the morrow is unknown;
that you are mercifully spared the anticipation of trials which might
otherwise project a life-long shadow on your bright present, and make the
future one long experience of sadness.
Then, above all, rest in the gracious conviction that the
morrow, unrevealed to you, is known to Him. He sees what you
cannot see--"the end from the beginning." With Him there is no chance or
contingency, no haphazard or peradventure. "Trust Me," He seems to say, "in
the fulfillment of a double promise, spoken ages ago, that in this Hospice I
have a store of sandals for the feet, and a pilgrim staff for the way. 'Your
shoes shall be iron and brass; and as your days so shall your strength be.'
These (in other words, My exceeding great and precious promises) will be
adequate for all needs and difficulties, helping you over the rugged road
and unbridged torrent."
Indulge, then, no needlessly anxious thoughts. Do not
allow life to degenerate into a round and vortex of weary care. God gives no
prevenient store of grace. He provides no program of tomorrow's evils and
trials, its needs and necessities. But when the morrow comes, the promised
strength comes with it, and the traveler pursues his way with the words
which the great Rest-Giver whispers in his ear, "I will make My grace
sufficient for you."
"Trust Him when dark doubts assail you;
Trust Him when your strength is small;
Trust Him when to simply trust Him
Seems the hardest thing of all."
Let even outer Nature, in her unfaltering laws and
sublime sequences, teach the same lesson of confidence in the divine
faithfulness:
"And I will trust that He who heeds
The life that hides in mead and wold,
Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads,
And stains these mosses green and gold,
Will still, as He has done, incline
His gracious care to me and mine."
Blessed Savior, on Yourself may I be enabled to cast, not
some cares, or the more pressing cares, but all my cares. "Whenever I
am afraid, I will trust in You."
From the windows of this Gospel Hospice I will see the
future, even though somber with cloud, spanned with the bow of covenant
promise, and read the lettering of "dewy gold," – "O rest in the Lord,
and wait patiently for Him."
"This is the resting place, let the weary rest. This is
the place of repose." Isaiah 28:12