Streams in the Desert - October 23

There hath not failed one word of all his good promise (1 Kings 8:56).

Some day we shall understand that God has a reason in every NO which He speaks through the slow movement of life. "Somehow God makes up to us." How often, when His people are worrying and perplexing themselves about their, prayers not being answered, is God answering them in a far richer way! Glimpses of this we see occasionally, but the full revelation of it remains for the future.

If God says 'Yes' to our prayer, dear heart,

And the sunlight is golden, the sky is blue,

While the smooth road beckons to me and you,

And the song-birds warble as on we go,

Pausing to gather the buds at our feet,

Stopping to drink of the streamlets we meet,

Happy, more happy, our journey will grow,

If God says 'Yes' to our prayer, dear heart.

If God says 'No' to our prayer, dear heart,

And the clouds hang heavy and dull and gray;

If the rough rocks hinder and block the way,

While the sharp winds pierce us and sting with cold;

Ah, dear, there is home at the journey's end,

And these are the trials the Father doth send

To draw us as sheep to His Heavenly fold,

If God says 'No' to our prayer, dear heart.

Oh for the faith that does not make haste, but waits patiently for the Lord, waits for the explanation that shall come in the end, at the revelation of Jesus Christ! When did God take anything from a man, without giving him manifold more in return? Suppose that the return had not been made immediately manifest, what then? Is today the limit of God's working time? Has He no provinces beyond this little world? Does the door of the grave open upon nothing but infinite darkness and eternal silence?

Yet, even confining the judgment within the hour of this life, it is true that God never touches the heart with a trial without intending to bring upon it some grander gift, some tenderer benediction. He has attained to an eminent degree of Christian grace who knows how to wait.
--Selected

When the frosts are in the valley,

And the mountain tops are grey,

And the choicest buds are blighted,

And the blossoms die away,

A loving Father whispers,

"This cometh from my hand";

Blessed are ye if ye trust

Where ye cannot understand.

If, after years of toiling,

Your wealth should fly away

And leave your hands all empty,

And your locks are turning grey,