The Morning of Joy

I have been asked, once and again, to follow up “The Night of Weeping” with “The Morning of Joy,” the words of David, in the 30th Psalm, having suggested the addition. After much thought and some hesitation I have done so.

The former work was meant to he complete in itself, presenting not merely the night-side of tribulation, but bringing out also, though less prominently, some of its day-hues. As, however, it has been thought incomplete, having in it so much more of night than of day; an endeavour has been made to complete it by drawing forward the eye to the scenes of morning, so soon to open upon us, in all their breadth and beauty. In this way we are led to forget the things that are behind, and to reach forward to those before, pressing towards the mark for the prize of our high calling. And the fuller, the truer, the more frequent our anticipations of promised glory are, the deeper and the richer will our consolations be.

Sitting down beneath the shadow of the cross, and reading in its inscription God’s record of free love, our fears are put to flight and our souls find rest. Possessed of forgiveness and assured of the life that dies not, we feel that all is well with us. “Come life, come death,” we can say, “come calm or storm, come gain or loss, come j oy or grief, all is well.” For “the work of righteousness is peace, and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance for ever.”

And surely this is much in the way of cousolavi

tion, even though we had nothing more to cheer us. But it is not all. There is much more than this.

While sitting there God opens upon our eye a wide prospect, stretching far into eternity. Perhaps he sends trial, “breaking us with his tempest.” Then he spreads out before us the vision of brightness for our comfort, and as the grief presses heavier, the vision enlarges on the view. The going down of our sun, though it covers earth with a shadow, draws the curtain from the firmament above us, and encircles us with the splendour of ten thousand stars. Then we not only are led to see that the greater portion of our being lies beyond either present joy or sorrow, but are also led to inquire into those outlying hopes, and to survey the whole breadth of that goodly inheritance, of which we are the heirs.

These inquiries and surveys are, as we shall see, most blessed in their nature, and purifying, as well as comforting, in their tendency. They are fraught with holiness and full of joy. They tend to make us forget the present in the future, and to assimilate us to the objects thus vividly presented to us. For, though it is true that “tears make the harvest of the heart to grow;” yet it is the anticipated light of the unrisen morning that ripens it.

This is more than mere negative consolation. It is positive and efficacious. The negative is, “Wherefore should a living man complain?” or, “There the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” This, so far as it goes, is precious. But God has given us something more than this. The hope which he furnishes is not merely the hope of a quiet close to this world’s weariness, but the va

hope of infinite gladness which is then to begin. There is a passage in Job which exemplifies both of these very fitly. Groaning under the pressure of no common grief, he cries out,

Oh that thou wouldst hide me in the grave!

That thou wouldst keep me secret!

Till thy wrath be past.

As if he would he glad to he hidden any where, even in the grave, from such calamities. But then this is not enough. This is mere negative comfort. It is the mere cessation of suffering. And this does not content him. He bethinks himself, and cries out again.

Oh that thou wouldst appoint me a set time And remember me!

He cannot hear the thought of always lying in the dust, even though it is a secure hiding-place from the storms of earth. He would not be forgotten there. He would have a time set, at the end of which God might remember him. Then abruptly he asks.

If a man die shall he live?

and, evidently answering himself, ‘‘Yes, he shall live again,” he calmly adds.

All the days of my appointed time will I wait,

Till my change come.

For it is resurrection-change he looks for, and rejoices in as his hope. When that day arrives the trumpet shall sound, the voice of God shall speak, —

Thou shalt call,

And I will answer I

But how is he so assured of being thus remembered of God? He knows how precious in his eyes is the dust of his saints, —

Thou wilt have a desire
To the work of thine hands.

Thus, though J oh begins with what is merely negative, that is, the ending of his grief and shame, he cannot rest there, hut presses on, in rapid hope, to the beginning of his joy and glory. It is the MORNING, with all its new life and reviving sunshine, that rises before his view, and from afar pours into him its healing light.

‘‘ The fashion of this world passeth away.’’ This cheers us, for it assures us that no grief shall live long. But the fashion of ‘‘ the world to come” endures. This is unspeakably gladdening; for all that that better age” brings with it shall abide for ever. The inheritance is vast, the city is “joyous,” the mansions are many, the title is sure, and the possession is everlasting.

Jerusalem! Jerusalem!

Would God I were in thee!

Oh that my sorrows had an end,

Thy joys that I might see.

Thus sweetly sung one of Scotland’s holiest sons in the olden time. Broken with many griefs, he thus poured out his soul, — weary and home-sick, as a stranger here. And will not “night” fail in one of its objects, if it does not make us [long for the “day”? Will not tribulation he frustrated if it do not stir within us this “earnest expectation,” this “groaning within ourselves,” this “fervent longing,” — this home-sickness which the saints in other days felt so tenderly and truly? And all the more, because “now is our salvation nearer than when we believed;” for we have arrived at the last stage of our journey, and a few more days will suffice to bring us home.

December 19, 1849.

MOENING OF JOY,

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