The Burdened Gently Led by Christ

From Octavius Winslow's book, Help Heavenward

"He tends His flock like a shepherd,
He gathers the lambs in His arms
and carries them close to His heart;
He gently leads those that are with young."
   Isaiah 40:11

"Those that are with young"—those that are burdened; for such are those who Jesus gently leads. This is a large portion of the "little flock" of which Christ is the Chief Shepherd, Leader, and Exemplar. In scarcely nothing is the type stronger—in no particular is the type more appropriate.

It is proper and befitting that the sheep of the Burden-bearer should themselves be a burdened flock. But little would they know of Him as such . . .
in the glory of His Godhead,
in the compassion of His manhood,
in the strength of His shoulder, and
in the tenderness of His heart—
but for their wearisome, toilsome travail.

They must be "with young" to know what the "gentleness of Christ" is.

A general view of our humanity will present to the eye, the spectacle of the "whole creation (rational and irrational) groaning and travailing together in pain until now." Our humanity is a burdened humanity, and we, who believe, share that burden in addition to those of which the unregenerate feel nothing.

Spiritual life renders the soul sensible to many a crushing weight, of which the soul spiritually dead is unconscious—just as the corpse feels no pressure. We would not anticipate other portions of this chapter, yet we cannot forbear the remark, at this stage, that, if you discover in your soul that spiritual sensibility, that sense of pain, suffering, and depression produced by a holy consciousness of indwelling evil, of a nature totally depraved, or those diversified spiritual exercises of the soul through which the flock of the Lord's pasture more or less pass—then have you one of the most indubitable evidences of spiritual life. We repeat the remark—it is only a living man who is conscious of the pressure; a corpse cannot feel. Spiritual sensibility is a sign of spiritual life.

The Lord's people, then, find them where you may, in high circles or low, rich or poor—are a burdened people. Each one has his cross, each his heavy load, each his painful pressure.

Oh, how ought this truth to unite the people of God in holy affection, forbearance, and sympathy towards one another! The precept which recognizes the burdens of the Lord's people, in the same words binds them upon our hearts: "Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."
 

But let us specify some of the BURDENS of the Lord's people—those of whom it is said, "He shall gently lead those that are with young"—and this will prepare us to consider the gentleness of Christ towards them.

All of the Lord's people are sensible of the burden of conscious guilt. In this particular it may with truth be said that "He fashions their hearts alike." In this school—painful yet needed—all true believers are experimentally taught. It may be added, that from it they never entirely graduate until called home to glory.

The lesson of . . .
our original and deep sinfulness;
the weakness, impurity, and vileness of the flesh;
that there dwells in it no good thing—
is the daily, hourly lesson of the Christian's life.

If we ever extract any honey from that precious declaration, "By grace are you saved," it is under the pressure of our personal and inexpressible vileness and nothingness. Into this bitter cup the Lord distills the sweetness and savor of His most free and rich grace!

But oh, how few of our species are conscious of this burden—the burden of the curse! And yet it confronts them at every step, and starts up before them at each turn.

We cannot gaze upon the outspread landscape, nor walk into the beautiful garden, nor sail upon the lovely lake—we cannot pluck the flowers, nor breathe the air, nor quaff the spring, but the sad, sad truth confronts us—the curse of God has blighted and blasted all!

Is natural man spiritually sensible of this? Ah, no!

He sighs, but knows not why.
He is fettered, but feels no chain.
He sickens, and knows not the cause.
He marvels to find a sepulcher in his garden—disease, decay, and death in such close proximity to his choicest, sweetest, dearest delights! He wonders that . . .
his flower fades,
his spring dries,
his sheltering gourd withers in a night!

He does not understand that the curse is there—that the overshadowing vine breeds its own worm. Thus he treads life's short journey, from the cradle to the grave, crushed beneath this tremendous weight. Nor does he see, as he passes, the uplifted cross where He was impaled who died to deliver us from its weight; yes, He "who was made a curse for us."

Here and there we see one of this long and gloomy procession awakened to the conviction of the truth, and exclaiming, "What shall I do to be saved?"

Here and there we espy a pilgrim, with the burden of sin upon his back, climb the sacred hill, and reach the cross—look—and leave his burden; and pursue his way, rejoicing in Christ, and exclaiming, "There is now no condemnation!" Yet the great mass of people pass on insensible and dead.

Not so with the Lord's people. Emancipated, indeed, we are from the curse and condemnation of sin, for Christ our Surety was "delivered for our offences, and was raised again for our justification." Nevertheless, the more healthy our spiritual life, the more frequently and closely the conscience deals with His precious atoning blood—the more alive and sensitive will be our spiritual sensibility to the conviction and pressure of that curse, which, though removed as a condemnation, yet remains as a fact.

The tenderness which Christ's atoning blood imparts, the conviction of indebtedness which Divine grace gives—deepens the sensibility of sin. And, although standing beneath the shadow of the cross, and reading our pardon there—the conviction of our exceeding sinfulness is not the less, but all the more, acute. The curse, though removed, has left its lingering shadow upon the soul, and this, to a saint of God, is no little burden.

And when to this is added . . .
the faltering of the Christian walk,
the flawed service,
the imperfection of worship,
the dead insect tainting the perfume of the sacred anointing,
the dust upon the sandal,
the robe trailed in the mire,
the concealed, but not less real and sinful, appetite of the heart—its foolishness and fickleness; oh, is there no painfully-felt burden in all this to a mind whose moral perceptions are quick, and whose spirituality covets a close and holy walk with God?

How keenly sensible, too, are many of God's people of the burden of bodily infirmity. The apostle numbers himself among them, when, so feelingly and vividly describing this infirmity of the flock, he says, "We who are in this tabernacle groan, being burdened." While all believers are conscious of this, many are more painfully so than others. Some know not a single day's perfect health; yes, many not an hour's freedom from wearying pain. Days of languor and nights unsoothed by sleep are appointed to them.

Others, while, perhaps, exempt from bodily disease, are afflicted with an acutely nervous, sensitive temperament, subjecting them to a species of sorrow which compels them to nurse their burden in lonely isolation. It is with them incessant suffering. The trembling of the aspen leaf startles them, their own shadow alarms them, the flutter of an angel's wing, as he sweeps past on his mission of love, would discompose them. This is their burden, and the greatest, because the least known of all, that receives the soothing of human kindness, consideration, and sympathy. Christians thus afflicted, require a mode of treatment peculiarly patient and gentle. Those who are not conversant with the delicate sensibility of the nervous system can but imperfectly estimate the acute suffering of such.

Is it trespassing too curiously into the solemn mystery of Christ's unknown agony, to venture the surmise that, in the terrible conflict which so fearfully agitated His whole frame in the garden, as to clothe it with a vesture of blood—there entered deeply this element of suffering, the exquisite sympathy of the nervous system?

If this is true, and we see no reason to question it, then how appropriate, precious, and soothing is His compassion and sympathy with all His members similarly afflicted! What, beloved, if your case . . .
distances the sympathy,
or baffles the cure,
or even awakens the reproach,
of your fellows? Let it suffice that every nerve quivering with agony, that every pulse fluttering with excitement, awakens a response of tenderness and sympathy in the Sufferer of Gethsemane!

And oh, if this is so—then you can well afford to part with a creature's compassion and help, since it but makes room for Christ. Ah! one five minutes' experience of His love in the heart, is of more worth than an eternity of the creature's seeming sympathy. As we feel the human arm droop, and see the human eye withdrawn, and are conscious of the chill that has crept over the warm bosom upon which we fondly leaned—we often little think that Jesus is but preparing us for a more full and entire enthronement of Himself in our soul.

Then, there are others whose burden is a constant tendency to mental despondency and gloom. Whether this is constitutional, is produced by sorrow, or is the result of disease, the effect is the same—a life perpetually cloud-veiled and depressed, scarcely relieved by a transient gleam of sunshine. No little burden is this. A mind diseased involves more real suffering, and demands more Divine grace, than a body diseased. And yet, how large a class is this! What numbers are there of the Lord's people whose spiritual hope is obscured by mental disease, and whose mental disease is, in its turn, produced by some physical irritant—so close is the relation and so sympathetic the emotions of the body and mind. What a mystery is our being!

Yet there is One—and but One—who understands it. "He knows our frame; He remembers that we are dust." Your Savior, beloved, experienced mental gloom and spiritual depression as you never can. It was not always sunshine and joy with your Lord. His path often wound along the lonely valley, and across the dreary desert, and through the deep gloom of the pathless forest—and He truly knows the way that you take. The spiritual despondency of your soul, the cloud-veilings of your mind, the absence of vigorous faith, of heaven-springing joy, and of undimmed hope—affect not your union with Christ, touch not your interest in the love of God, and render not doubtful or insecure your place in the many-mansioned house of your Father in Heaven!

Will not this truth be a great help heavenward? Will not this assurance, founded as it is on the Word of God, distill some joy into your heart, and throw some gleam of sunshine upon your path, and strengthen you as a child of the light to walk through darkness—until you reach that world of glory of which it is said, "And there is no night there!" "Who among you fears the LORD and obeys the word of his servant? Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the LORD and rely on his God!" (Isaiah 50:10.)

"Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart." Take heart and go forward; "light and gladness" shall spring up in your path just where and when the God who loves you, and the Shepherd who leads you, sees best. They are "sown" by God's hand, and they shall spring forth beneath His smile. A love unchanging, and a covenant-keeping God, is bringing you home to Himself!

There is often, too, in the experience of many, the burden of some heavy daily cross. A personal grief, or a domestic trial, or a relative calamity—is the weight they bear, perhaps with not a day's cessation. Is it no burden to have a wounded spirit? Is it no burden to nurse a sorrow which prohibits all human sympathy, which admits not, from its profound depth and sacredness, another to share it? Is it no burden to stand up alone for Jesus and His truth in the domestic circle, allied in the closest bonds of nature to those concerning whom we must exclaim, "I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother's children!"—in whom your spiritual joy awakens no response, and your spiritual sorrow arouses no sympathy?

But, oh, what a privilege and honor to endure reproach, and separation, alienated affection, studied neglect, and relentless persecution, for Christ's sake! "And on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus."

Tried, persecuted disciple, "to you it is given, in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe in His name, but also to suffer for His sake." Upon you Jesus has laid the burden, the sweet, the precious burden, of His cross—that you might bear it after Him. Did ever any burden . . .
confer such honor,
bring such repose,
secure a crown so bright, or
lead to such glory and blessedness?

"Whoever shall confess me before men, him shall the Son of Man also confess before the angels of God."

Lord! make Yourself more precious to my heart—then will Your burden be lighter, Your yoke easier, shame for You will be sweeter. Then Your cross, crude and heavy though it is, will become increasingly my joy, my glory, and my boast!
 

Let us now turn our thoughts to the GENTLENESS with which the Divine Shepherd leads these His burdened ones. "He shall GENTLY lead those that are with young."

The Leader is Jesus—the Good Shepherd. He claims this as one part of His pastoral office. "The sheep hear his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name, and leads them out." "He leads them OUT"—leads them . . .
out of their unregenerate nature,
out of their state of condemnation,
out of the world, and
out of their families.

And WHERE does He lead them? He leads them to His cross and to Himself. And, thus receiving and resting in Him as their righteousness, and their salvation, and their portion—He then leads them out to the green pastures He has provided for the flock, where He causes them to lie down in safe and quiet resting-places.

Oh, what a momentous step is this—the first that His people take! To be led . . .
out of our own righteousness and unrighteousness,
out of our wrecked and polluted selves,
out of the false confidences, the spurious hopes, the ritual worship, and pharisaical religion to which we had been so long and so fondly wedded;
and led to embrace the Lord Jesus as our one, our sole, our sure hope for eternity! Oh, this is Heaven's first, and Heaven's last step. This step taken, Heaven is sure!

Test your religion, beloved, by this. Has Jesus so taught you?

Has His sovereign grace been exhibited in leading you out of your worldly circle?

Has His converting grace led you out of your self-righteousness?

Has His pardoning, justifying grace led you to peace with God, holiness of life, and hope of Heaven?

Then, if this is so, then you are Christ's, and Christ is yours! Thus does the Lord lead His people. He leads them . . .
through the wilderness,
up the steep ascent,
and down into the low valley,
through water and fire, cloud and storm, thorns and desert
—watching them with an eye that never slumbers,
keeping them by a hand that never wearies,
and encircling them with a love that never chills.

Thus, step by step He leads them on . . .
from grace to glory,
from earth to Heaven,
from the wilderness below to the paradise above!

Not one of that flock, thus led, thus guarded, thus loved—shall be missing when the Shepherd brings all of His sheep into His heavenly fold. His "rod and His staff" will be found to have . . .
restored them,
guided them,
comforted them, and
at last to have brought them home!

Little faith,
and fickle love,
and weak grace,
and limited experience,
and defective knowledge,
and faltering steps
—all finding their way, through trial and temptation and suffering, home to God—not one "vessel of mercy" missing!

Oh, who but Christ could accomplish this? Who but the Divine Shepherd could thus have kept, and thus have gathered, and thus have folded the sheep scattered up and down in the cloudy and dark day?

What an evidence of the Godhead of Christ! Oh, crown His deity!
Crown it with your faith,
crown it with your love,
crown it with your praise
—you who have "now received the atonement;" for nothing short of this could place you within the realms of glory. Jesus, when there, will be your crown and joy forever!

The "gentleness of Christ" is a theme on which the Holy Spirit frequently dwells. It is an essential perfection of His nature. The nature of Christ is gentle. It is not an engrafted virtue, a cultivated grace—it is essential to His very existence. Recollect that the two natures of our Lord were perfect.

If we look at His superior nature—His divine nature—the wondrous truth fits the eye as if emblazoned in letters of living light, "God is love!" Now, Christ was an embodiment of the essential love of God. Consequently, gentleness was a perfection of His being.

If we view His inferior nature—the human nature—not less manifest was His gentleness, since His humanity, though identified with the curse, and sin, and infirmity, and shaded with sorrow—yet was sinless humanity, free from all and the slightest moral taint! So His gentleness, in its most exquisite form, was one of its most distinguished attributes.

If, too, we connect with this truth the fullness of the Spirit in our Lord's human nature—the evidence of its essential and perfect gentleness is complete.

Was not the gentleness of Christ visible in His every act? There was . . .
nothing censorious in His disposition,
nothing harsh in His manner,
nothing bitter or caustic in His speech.

If, with withering rebuke, He denounced the hypocrisy of the scribes, or the self-righteousness of the Pharisees, or the extortion of the lawyers, or His rejection by the nation He had come to save—while no voice could speak in words more fearful, yet none in tones more tremulous with the deepest, tenderest emotion.

But oh, how much oftener is the blessing breathed from His lip, than is the woe! Judgment was His strange work—mercy was His delight. Truly in all His works, in all His ways, in all His discourses, the beautiful prophecy that foretold the gentleness of His grace was fulfilled: "He shall come down like rain on the mown grass, as showers that water the earth." "The bruised reed he shall not break, and the smoking flax he shall not quench." But let us consider this specific illustration of Christ's gentleness—His soothing dealings with the burdened. "He gently leads those that are with young."

We have an apposite illustration of this in the considerate tenderness of Jacob: "And Jacob said unto Esau: You know that the children are tender, and the flocks and herds with young are with me; and if men should over-drive them one day, all the flock will die. I will move along slowly at the pace of the droves before me and that of the children" (Genesis 33:13,14.)

If such is the tenderness and such is the considerateness of a man—then what must be that of Christ! Who can portray the gentleness with which He leads His people? His gentleness, as displayed in conversion, how great! His gentleness is seen in drawing them with cords of love, and with the bands of a man! His gentleness is seen in gradually unavailing their vileness, and thus step by step leading them into assured peace.

His TEACHING, how gentle! "I have many things to say unto you, but you cannot bear them now." Here a little and there a little, He, by the Spirit, softly leads us to truth—doctrine explaining doctrine, precept leading to precept, promise following promise. And so, by a gradual unfolding of the gospel, by a process of instruction the most gentle—we are fed, first with the milk, and then with the strong meat of the Word, and so grow up into Christ, the Truth. Submit yourself, then, beloved, to His teaching.

Burdened with a sense of your ignorance, wearied with the teaching of men, perplexed and discouraged by the conflicting of human judgment—come and learn of Christ. You will advance more in Divine instruction in one day at the feet of Jesus, than in a lifetime at the feet of Gamaliel. The very gentleness of His teaching instructs. His patience and forbearance; His words of heart-cheer and commendation, untinged by an unkind look, and untinctured by a harsh word—will advance your experimental knowledge of Himself, and so advance your soul heavenward.

Not less gentle is His GUIDANCE. Is the path our heavenly Father has chosen for us paved with flint, and sown with briars? Is it narrow and serpentine, difficult and perilous, often lonely and dreary? Yet how gently the Shepherd leads us along! How he goes before, straitening the crooked, and smoothing the rough places, and rolling the heavy stone from before us! What unexpected mercies and interpositions and aids He causes to spring forth in our way! How He mitigates expected suffering, allays foreboding fears, and disappoints all our unbelieving and mournful anticipations, going before us with His goodness! And when we have reached that event in our life which we the most dreaded, the spot which looked the darkest in our history—we have stood amazed at the marvelous loving-kindness of our God! That very event has proved our greatest blessing, and that very spot the sunniest and the brightest in the wilderness—so gently has Jesus led us!

In AFFLICTION and SORROW, how gentle are His dealings! Perhaps it is then that we learn more of this perfection of our dear Lord, than at any other time. The time of trial is a time that tests the reality of things. It brings to the test . . .
the fickle friendship of the world,
the impotency of the creature,
the insufficiency of all earthly things.

Times of affliction are truly times of trial. But the greatest and grandest discovery of all, is . . .
the sufficiency,
the preciousness, and
the gentleness of Christ.

Oh, how little is known of the "Man of sorrows" but in the hour of sorrow! There are soundings in the depths of His infinite love, tenderness, and sympathy—only made in the many and deep waters of adversity. How gently does He deal with our burdened hearts then! There is not a being in the universe that knows . . .
how to deal with sorrow,
how to heal a wounded spirit,
how to bind up a broken heart, as Jesus.

Lord, teach us this truth! Lead us into the depths of Your love. Unveil the springs of Your sympathy. Show us that . . .
in the languor of sickness,
in the tortures of pain,
in the agony of bereavement,
in the woundings of trial,
in the losses of adversity,
You still are gentle, and that Your gentleness makes us great.

We need as much the gentleness of Christ in the smooth path, as in the rough path. Smooth paths are slippery paths. Times of prosperity are perilous times to the Christian. Never is the man of God, the man of Christian principle, more exposed to the corruption of his own nature, the assaults of Satan, and the seductions of the world—as when the world prospers with him, and the creature smiles upon him. Then is he walking upon enchanted ground—then he needs to pray, "Hold me up, and I shall be safe." "Let integrity and uprightness preserve me."

Oh to be kept from this sinful, ungodly, treacherous world!
If riches increase, to give the more to Christ;
if honors accumulate, to walk the humbler with God;
if influence and position and power augment, to write upon it all, "HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD."

But what can thus preserve, thus sanctify—but the gentleness of Christ, who will not "allow the moon to smite us by night, nor the sun by day"—who, in the night-season of adversity and in the daytime of prosperity hides us in the cleft of the rock, and thus gently leads us heavenward?

And now, beloved, what a help heavenward, what strength and heart-cheer—will you find in a believing reception of this truth—the gentleness of Christ! Never doubt, never question, never reject it. It is an ingredient in every bitter cup you drink, it is light in every dark cloud you behold, it is an accent in every voice you hear of Christ's dealings, leadings, and teachings. He is, He must be, gentle.

He is not only gentle, but He is gentleness itself. Gentleness is His nature, because love is His essence. The heart of Christ is such that it cannot be otherwise than gentle in its every feeling. The physician is not less kind, because he prescribes a nauseous remedy; nor is the surgeon less feeling, because he makes a deep incision; nor is the parent less loving, because he employs the rod. Nor is your Lord less so, because . . .
the way by which He leads,
and the discipline by which He sanctifies,
and the method by which He instructs you
—may for a moment veil the reality, light, and comfort of this truth, "He gently leads those that are with young."

Did Jacob lead the flocks and herds with young gently and softly, lest they should die? Oh, how much more gently and softly does our Jacob, our true Shepherd, lead us!

"He tends His flock like a shepherd,
 He gathers the lambs in His arms
 and carries them close to His heart;
 He gently leads those that are with young."

Lest we should be weary, He will not overdrive us;
lest we should faint, He leads us by springs of water;
lest our soul should be discouraged by difficulty of the way, He causes us to lie down beneath the shadow of the Rock that is higher than we.

If this is so, then yield yourself to the Lord's leading. Be satisfied that He is leading you by the right way homeward. Do not distrust His wisdom, nor question His love, nor fret, murmur, and rebel that the way is not exactly just as you would have chosen. Be sure of this, it is the right way. And if it is one of self-denial and of difficulty, one of straitness and of cloud—yet it is the way home, the ordained way, the only way that will bring you into the beatific presence of Jesus!

His gentleness will constrain Him to bear with you, and will suggest just such wise and holy discipline as will impart . . .
robustness to your religion,
completeness to your Christian character, and
sanctity to all the relations and doings of life.

O Lord, I am oppressed, undertake for me!

I am burdened, gently lead me!

I am in darkness, stay my soul upon You!

I am in perplexity, skillfully guide me.

Let me hear Your voice saying, "This is the way, walk in it." Let Your pillar of cloud by day, and of fire by night, lead and guide me gently homeward. Make Your way straight before my feet. My foes watch for my halting, my enemies wait for my stumbling—hold me up, and I shall be safe!

Sorrows swell my heart,
tears dim my eyes,
the billows swell,
the sky lowers,
the clouds darken,
the winds sigh mournfully, and
all my landscape is wintry and cheerless—
draw me within your warm, your sheltering love!

You have laid me upon this bed of weakness and of pain—come and make it in my sickness, and pillow this sleepless, weary head upon Your bosom.

You . . .
have nipped my favorite flower,
have withered my pleasant gourd,
have removed my strong stay,
have dried up my present resources, and
have left me to tread the valley of life in loneliness, in want, and in tears.

Soothe, support, and uphold . . .
my trembling heart,
my weak faith,
my desponding mind.

"In the multitude of my thoughts within me, may your comforts delight my soul." In my widowhood, in my orphanage, in my friendlessness, in my desolateness, in my need—I look, I run, I cleave to You! Do not cast me off from the bosom to which I fly. Shelter me from the storm and tempest, within Your wounded side. Let . . .
that eye that never wanders in its glance of love,
that voice that never falters in its accents of tenderness,
that hand that never droops in its outstretched help,
that heart that never chills,
that faithfulness that never veers
—restore, soothe, and encircle me!

Lord, no parent, no brother, no friend, no lover—is like You! I am learning Your worth, Your gentleness, and Your preciousness—in Your own appointed, wise, and holy way. Only let the result of this Your present dealing with me, be . . .
my deeper holiness,
my richer experience,
my maturer Christian growth,
my greater usefulness,
my more advanced fitness for Heaven,
my more simple, single, unreserved consecration to You; and Your more undivided, undisputed, and supreme enthronement within my soul.

"Is there a thing beneath the sun
 That strives with You my heart to share?
 Oh! tear it thence, and reign alone,
 The Lord of every motion there!"

I cite you, my Christian reader, as Christ's witness to this truth. Has not the Lord dealt gently with you?

Gently has He carried you over the rough place,
gently has He led you through the swelling tide,
gently has He wounded you,
with what gentleness has he healed you,
gently has He chastened you,
how gently has He dried your tears.

With what gentleness has He dealt with you . . .
in sickness,
in suffering,
and in grief.

How gently He has . . .
corrected your backslidings,
restored your wanderings,
guided your perplexities,
removed your burdens.

And thus,
with a power that is never exhausted,
with a skill that is never baffled,
with a patience that never wearies,
with a love that never falters, and
with a gentleness that never overdrives
—Christ is leading you step by step heavenward, where, with a depth of gratitude and an emphasis of meaning unfelt before, you shall exclaim, "Your gentleness has made me great!"

Beloved,
burdened with sin,
burdened with grief,
burdened with sorrow
—listen to the gentle voice which bids you "cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you." Your burden—whatever it may be:
your burden of care,
your burden of anxiety,
your burden of sickness,
your burden of weariness
—cast it upon Jesus the Burden-bearer, roll it from off your shoulder and upon His, transfer it from your heart to His heart;

in the simplicity and directness of a faith that doubts not, hesitates not, demurs not, because His word has promised that His grace and strength and love shall sustain you.

No burden will Jesus have you feel, but . . .
the easy burden of His commands,
the gentle burden of His love,
the honored burden of His cross.

In bearing these you shall find rest; for there is real rest in obedience, in love, in the cross—yes, in whatever binds the heart to Christ.

Imitate Christ in His gentleness. Be gentle to others, as He is gentle to you. "The servant of the Lord must be gentle." The great apostle could say, "We were gentle among you, even as a nurse cherishes her children." "The wisdom that is from above is first pure, then gentle," and it teaches us "to slander no one, to be peaceable and considerate, and to show true humility toward all men." Titus 3:2

Be gentle to the lambs of the flock; be gentle to those . . .
whose grace is little,
whose faith is weak,
whose strength is small,
whose infirmities are many,
whose sorrows are keen,
whose trials are severe,
whose positions and paths in life are difficult and perilous.

Oh, I beseech you, by the meekness and gentleness of Christ, that you be in this particular, Christ-like.

Be gentle to those who have fallen by the power of temptation; and to those who have traveled in the ways of the Lord with so slow and tardy a step that they have been overtaken by evil. Be gentle to the bruised reed and the smoking flax. Be gentle, very gentle—to the broken heart and the wounded spirit. Speak gently to those whom shame and grief and sin have bowed down to the earth. Speak gently of those who, through weakness and frailty, have erred in judgment or in practice.

Oh, learn of Jesus, in the gentleness with which He leads the burdened, and consider yourself as never so closely assimilated to Him as when meekness, lowliness, and gentleness clothe you as with a garment, and beautify your whole conduct with their luster.

"Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us,
Through this gloomy valley of tears,
Though the changes Thou'st decreed us,
Until our last great change appears.

"When temptation's darts assail us,
When in devious paths we stray,
Let your goodness never fail us,
Lead us in Your perfect way.

"In the hour of pain and anguish,
In the hour when death draws near,
Suffer not our hearts to languish,
Suffer not our souls to fear.

"When this mortal life is ended,
Bid us in Your arms to rest,
Until, by angel bands attended,
We awake among the blessed.

"Then, oh, crown us with your blessing,
Through the triumphs of Your grace,
Then shall praises never ceasing
Echo through Your dwelling-place!"
  —Octavius Winslow