The Strength Beyond Nature
Psalm viii. 1, 2 v.
“0 Lord who hast set Thy glory above the heavens. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained strength that Thou mightest still the avenger.”
The Psalmist says that when he considers only the heavens, he cries: “What is man, that Thou art mindful of him?” So do all of us; it is a very bad thing to keep the eye exclusively on masses of matter. Whenever you are oppressed, he says, by the glory of the heavens, you ought to remember that there is a “glory above the heavens.” Whenever you feel dwarfed by the strength of nature, remember that there is a strength which, though ascribed to the babe, is higher than nature. What is that strength? It is the thing called meekness — the thing that stills the avenger in the breast. We uncover our heads in wonder before the stilling of a natural storm. But the stilling of a soul-storm is more wonderful far. In the most obscure heart there is a tempest unrecorded — a tempest before which nature itself would quail. Yet the obscure heart conquers it, calms it, and is called a weakling for its victory. We revere the strength of the summer day because it holds the storm on its bosom. But we forget the strength of many a gentle spirit whose smile conceals the rain, whose flower has hid the thorn, whose calm restrains the torrent, whose meekness stills the avenger within.
Son of Man, set Thy glory to me above the heavens. Teach me the majesty of Thy meekness. I do not ask a still nature; what I want is a stilling nature. I would not have a soul where there is nothing to restrain. That is the peace the world gives — the peace of spent passion, the peace of exhausted energy. But not as the world givest Thou. Thine is not a sea of glass; it is glass mingled with fire. I would not lose the fire, oh, Christ of Calvary; I would be calmed
K tli rough the fire — through the very burning of my love. Beautifully was it written that the meekest man started from the burning bush. I need great strength to make me gentle. If I would have Thy dove of peace, I must have Thy vision of Jordan. Any clod of the valley can be still; but only the sight of the mountain can make still. The sea of my life is not calmed by diminishing the waters, but by the print of Thy footsteps treading thereon. I shall reach Thy patience when I have possessed my soul; I shall still my heart when Thou hast made me strong.