How know we but that a single change, the slightest
alteration of a simple law, would go jarring through
all the universe, throwing everything into confusion,
and bringing utter chaos, where now all is order.
The mother sees her little child die, she lays it in
its coffin, and surrenders it to the grave, and her
heart rebels against the Providence that snatched
away her treasure. In her agony, she appeals
reproachfully to Heaven, and asks, ’Why am I
thus bereaved?’ Foolish mother! impeach not
the wisdom of your bereavement. Mysterious as
it may be, know this, that in the councils of eternity
your sorrows were considered, and the decree which
took from you your darling, was ordered in mercy.
Pestilence sweeps over the land; a wail is on the
air. Peace, mourners, be still! The pestilence
has a mission of mercy, mysterious as it may be to
us. The storm lashes the ocean into fury; tall
ships, freighted with human souls, go down into its
relentless depths; a shriek of agony comes gurgling
up from the devouring waters; a cry of woe is heard
from a thousand homes over the wrecked and the lost.
Peace, again, mourners! The storm has a mission
of mercy. It may never be comprehended by us here,
but when the veil shall be lifted, as in God’s
good time it doubtless will be, we shall see how the
pestilence and the storm, that cost so many tears,
were essential to the harmony of a glorious system,
a perfect plan, and that seeming sorrow was at last
the occasion of unspeakable joy. Let no man say
that this or that law, or operation of nature, were
better changed, until he can fathom the designs of
God; till he can create a planet, and send it on its
everlasting round; till he can place a star in the
firmament; till he can breathe upon a statue, the workmanship
of his own hands, and be obeyed when he commands it
to walk forth a thing of life; till he can dip his
hand into chaos and throw off worlds. The ‘cold
storms of winter’ are essential to the enjoyment
of the brightness and glory, the genial sunshine,
the pleasant foliage, the blossoms and the odors of
spring. They have their uses, and chill and dreary
and desolate as they may be, they are parts of an
arrangement ordered by infinite goodness and omnipotent
wisdom.
“‘I should like to be a big strong man
like father is!’ How like a boy was this?
Thirsting for the strength, the might and power of
manhood! And this is the aspiration of the young
heart always; to be mature, strong to grapple with
the cares, and wrestle with the stern actualities
of life. How little of these does childhood know!
How little does it calculate the chances, that when,
in the long future, it shall have attained the full
strength and maturity of life, when manhood shall
be in the glory and strength of its prime, and it looks
forward into the dark cloud beyond, and backward into
the bright sunshine of the past, the aspiration, the
hope will change into regret, and the yearning of
the heart, speaking from its silent depths, will be,
‘would I were a boy again!’”