The boisterous wind picks up the falling raindrops and flings them clattering against the window pane. All day long heavy skies drop their moisture while icy winds spend their fury in sweeping gusts. Long, naked arms of ice-coated trees bend clumsily before the savage onslaught of the storm. Night closes in swiftly today, changing the misty gloom into murky darkness. Even the corner light looks dismally on as the wind continues to lash the disgruntled spirit of each passerby.
Yet it groans in hope.
All, it seemed to me that it was despair.
Spring, summer, autumn, winter; each giving way before the other, and then all over again.
One moment all is warm and pleasant, fit for the tender rose and snow-white lily, full of vigor and vim. And then the hand of death deliberately wipes it away. Earthquakes, floods, icy winds carrying their burden of snow or rain, burning sun and blistering drought. Devastations of every kind. Ever repeated, ever intensified, all through the ages.
One moment the sun strides majestically to the zenith of the heavens, pauses a fleeting second, and then is on his way to the distant West: night stalking in his trail. Passing days and weeks and months and years. As but a shadow. And man’s days on earth pass with it. All his wisdom, his inventive genius, his advancements, his treasures, his glories.
“Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes.
Each morning sees his task begun, Each evening sees its close.”
And when I looked at man, I said: All is vanity.
Why does the ‘Vicious circle” always go on revolving? Why does not creation give up in despair? Why continue groaning wearily under the curse?
Why should it, if it did not groan in hope?
* * * * * * *
No wind now, no sign of rain, nor a single fleecy cloud in the unspotted azure bright and clear overhead. A yellow glow has streaked tire eastern sky. The trees stand in rapt attention before the triumphant march of day, banishing darkness before it. A daring robin bursts into song in response to the challenge of the dawn.
The trees have been aroused from their long slumber and have donned a new garment of youthful green. The fields have also come to life, adorning themselves in sparkling splendor. The seedlings in the earth awaken to the warm rays of the sun.
Spring time is the time of resurrection.
For creation groans. Even audibly.
Always groaning in hope.
Almighty God speaks to us in parables.
He who called the things that were not as if they were, and sustains them in his power, causes the heavens to declare His glory, the day to utter speech and the night to show forth wisdom.
He sustains all things on the basis of His promise, even while He subjects the unwilling creature to vanity, in hope. Therefore, the creature waits in earnest expectation for the manifestation of the sons of God (Rom. 8:19-22). It, too, will be delivered from the bondage of corruption in that day when he shall make all things new.
Hope maketh not ashamed.
This we know, for once the heavens were rent and the Son of God came into the likeness of our sinful flesh. In our human nature He entered into death and burst its portals wide open.
Death is swallowed up in victors, for GOD raised JESUS from the dead. At the brake of dawn.
The firstfruits of our resurrection.
He lives, and we, too, shall live.
Even as we have hoped in THEE.
*Reprinted from the April 1941 issue of Beacon Lights.