The Night-Lodging and the Day-Dawn

When travelling in Palestine last year we occasionally came upon a wayside khan. Before one of those rude inns the traveller halts at the sunset, feeds his beasts, stretches himself on the floor, and in the cool dawn of the next morning saddles his horse or mule and pushes on his journey. This familiar custom was in the Psalmist’s mind when he wrote, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” This verse, literally translated, would read, “In the evening sorrow lodgeth, and at the day-dawn cometh shouting.” Sorrow is represented as only a lodger for a night, to be succeeded by joy at the sunrising.

This is a truthful picture of most frequent experiences; it is full of comfort to God’s people, and it points on to the glorious dawn of heaven’s eternal day, when the night-watch of life is over. Sorrow is often the precursor of joy; sometimes it is so needful, that unless we endure the one we cannot have the other. Some of us have known what it is to have severe sickness lodge in our bodily tent, when every nerve became a tormentor and every muscle a highway for pain to course over. We lay on our beds conquered and helpless. But the longest night has its dawn. At length returning health began to steal in upon us, like the earliest gleams of morning light through the window shutters. Never did food taste so delicious as the first meal of which we partook at our own table. Never did the sunbeams fall so sweet and golden as on that first Sabbath when we ventured out to church; and no discourse ever tasted so like heavenly manna as the one our pastor poured into our hungry ears that day. We sang the thirtieth psalm with melody in the heart, and no verse more gratefully than this one, ‘’ Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

Many a night of hard toil has been followed by the longed-for dawn of success. When we were weary wdth the rowing the blessed Master came to us on the waves and cried out, “Be of good cheer; it is I.” As soon as He entered the boat the skies lighted up, and presently the boat was in the harbor. The history of every discovery, of every enterprise of benevolence, of every Christian reform, is the history of toil and watching through long discouragements. I love to read the narrative of Palissy the potter, of his painful struggles with adversity, of his gropings after the scientific truth he was seeking, and of his final victory. Sorrow and poverty and toil lodged with that brave spirit for many a weary month, but at length came singing

and shouting. All Galileos and Keplers and Newlons have had this experience. All the Luthers and Wesleys who have pioneered great reformations, and all the missionaries of Christ who have ever invaded the darkness of paganism, have had to endure night-work and watching before the hand of God opened to them the gates of the ‘’ dayspring from on high.” This is the lesson to be learned by us pastors, by the teachers in mission-schools, by colporteurs, and by every toiler for Christ and souls. “We have toiled all night, and caught nothing,” exclaimed the tired and hungry disciples. Then in the early gray of the daybreak they espied their Master on the beach; the net is cast on the right side of the ship, and it swarms with fish enough to break its meshes. Nearly every revival season I have ever passed through in my church has been on this same fashion. Difficulties and discouragements have sent us to our knees, and then we have been surprised by the advent of the Master in great power and blessing. God tests His people before He blesses them. The night is mother of the day; trust through the dark brings triumph in the dawn.

Precisely similar are the deepest and richest experiences of many a regenerated soul. The sorrows of penitence were the precursors of the joys of pardon. I have known a convicted sinner to endure the pangs of contrition when no small tempest lay upon him and no sun or stars appeared; his soul was in the horror of a great darkness. To such distressed hearts God often sends a flood of relief and joy as sudden as the light that poured on Saul of Tarsus. To others conversion has been a slower, gentler process. Like the gradual coming of the dawn, — as we have witnessed it from a railway car or from a mountain summit, — darkness has slowly given place to steel-gray, and the steel-gray to silver, the silver has reddened into ruddy gold, and

all has developed so quietly and steadily that we could not fix the precise birthmoment of the day. Thousands of true Christians cannot fix the precise date of their conversion. But the dawn of hope and new life really begins when the mercy of Jesus Christ is rightly apprehended, and the soul begins to see and to follow Him.

“‘T is midnight with my soul till He, Bright Morning Star, bids darkness flee.”

Those who suffer the sharpest sorrow for their own sinfulness and guilt, and are brought into the deepest self-loathing, are commonly those who are the most thoroughly converted. The height of their joy is proportioned to the depth of their distress. Christ is all the more precious to them for having painfully felt the need of Him. The dawn of their new hope has been unmistakably from heaven, and their after pathway has shone brighter and brighter to the perfect day.

One other truth — the most ineffably glo rious of all — is illustrated by this simile of the night-lodging in the khan. The earthly life of God’s children is only a mere encampment for a night. To many are appointed sleeplessness and tears. Sometimes through poverty, sometimes through long sickness, sometimes under darkly mysterious bereavements, they have ‘* waited patiently on the Lord more than they that watch for the morning.” They knew that the dawn of heaven lay behind the clouds, and they held out in confident expectation of it. Paul himself had such sharp experiences that he once confessed that he had “a desire to break camp and to be with Christ, which is far better.” A most lovely Christian, whose life had been consumed by a slow cancer, went home to glory a few days ago. While the poor frail tent of the body was decaying by inches, she was feasting on rapturous glimpses of heaven. Through the long weary night

pain and suffering lodged in that fluttering tent; but at length

“The dawn of heaven broke, —

The summer morn she sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn awoke.”