He maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth and his hands make whole." (Job
The ministry of a great sorrow.
As we pass beneath the hills which have been shaken by the earthquake and torn by convulsion, we find that periods of perfect repose succeed those of destruction. The pools of calm water lie clear beneath their fallen rocks, the water lilies gleam, and the reeds whisper among the shadows; the village rises again over the forgotten graves, and its church tower, white through the storm twilight, proclaims a renewed appeal to His protection "in whose hand are all the corners of the earth, and the strength of the hills is his also." –Ruskin.
God ploughed one day with an earthquake
And drove His furrows deep
The huddling plains upstarted
The hills were all aleap
But that is the mountains' secret
Age-hidden in their breast
God's peace is everlasting
Are the dream-words of their rest.
He made them the haunts of beauty
The home elect of His grace
He spreadeth His mornings upon them
His sunsets light their face.
His winds bring messages to them
Wild storm-news from the main
They sing it down the valleys
In the love-song of the rain.
They are nurseries for young rivers
Nests for His flying cloud
Homesteads for new-born races
Masterful, free, and proud.
The people of tired cities
Come up to their shrines and pray
God freshens again within them
As He passes by all day.
And lo, I have caught their secret
The beauty deeper than all
This faith--that life's hard moments
When the jarring sorrows befall
Are but God ploughing His mountains
And those mountains yet shall be
The source of His grace and freshness
And His peace everlasting to me.
William C. Gannett.