SUBMISSION
"May Your will be done."—Luke 11:2
Such is part of the prayer which our Savior taught His
disciples. It is familiar to us all. We have lisped it at a mother's knee,
we have given utterance to it in the house of prayer, and in the secrecy of
our closets we have offered it up at the throne of the heavenly grace. And,
yet, how seldom have we fully realized its import, and given our willing,
heartfelt response to the petition! The truth is, we can only fathom its
deep meaning, and attain the power of saying "Amen" from the heart, by
degrees. And the place where our heavenly Father most often imparts the
power is the chamber of sickness. There we feel the intense
reality of the spiritual struggle—the battlings of the human will
against the Divine—the wrestlings between doubt and trust, between earth and
heaven, between things seen and temporal, and things unseen and eternal.
It is for the very purpose of teaching us submission,
that trials, and sickness, and sorrows come upon us. In health and
prosperity our great desire is self-pleasure, or looking for a state
of rest and satisfaction here, instead of taking up the cross—of labor in
duty, and submission to the will of God, with a renunciation of all worldly
schemes of happiness, and patience for death to put us in possession of it.
And God, who seeks our well-being, who desires to bring our will into entire
conformity with His own, withdraws us from the world, that by the painful
necessity of sickness, suffering, crosses, He may break the strong chain
which binds us to the world, may crucify our wills, may lead us to look ever
to Him, and to trust in His promised faithfulness and unerring wisdom.
God knows that without holiness we can have no
true happiness—that our hearts can find no true rest until they are
drawn upwards, and centered in Him; and therefore He appoints us a
continual process of purification and refining, until the dross of
selfishness, impatience, murmuring, and self-pleasing is removed from our
hearts, and we are brought to say, as we never could before, "Father, Your
will be done." For this end are we summoned to enter the furnace of sharp
affliction—for this end is long-continued suffering permitted, for this end
have we sometimes days, and nights, and months, and years of weariness, and
anguish, and bitter disappointment.
Tried one! do you feel it a difficult thing, in
the midst of pain, and weakness, and bodily infirmity, to say, "Your will be
done." Oh! deem it not strange—saints now in glory have been vexed and
troubled by the same thought; often have they grieved and lamented because
they were conscious of fretfulness and impatience under the hand of God.
While it is the very secret, the mystery of solid peace within, still it is
the hardest and most difficult of all lessons, to resign everything to God's
will, to be disposed of at His pleasure, without one resisting one opposing
thought.
But if you are learning, if you are striving
to endure with patience, if you are making constant efforts, be
they ever so feeble, to cherish a meek and submissive spirit, fear not. All
shall yet be well; more grace will be given you. The heavier the trial, the
larger will be the measure of strength.
Remember the example of your blessed Lord. He went
through far more than you can be called to suffer. His sorrows were not
merited, as yours have been. He was all pure; suffering could find in
Him no more to cleanse than sin could find to fasten upon. Yet
whose sorrow was like unto His? who ever passed through such a fiery
ordeal? And why was it? That He "might learn obedience by the things
that He suffered." He was made "perfect" by sufferings; and of this
perfection, after the measure of a creature and the proportions of our mere
manhood, are the saints made to partake; they are purified, that they may be
perfect. And therefore the sorrows of the holiest minds are the highest
approaches to the mind of Christ, and are full of a meaning which few can
comprehend. Oh, then, strive to follow the Savior's steps! Be not
dispirited, be not afraid. Keep a good heart, and you will be carried
through. He who perfected His own Son through sufferings, will bring you to
glory by the same path.
Remember, too, you are not your own, but His. You have
given yourself up to Him. Why, then, complain that He is doing with you as
He pleases? The great law of sacrifice is embracing you, and must
have its perfect work. Let it be your prayer, then, that your will being
crucified, you may offer up yourself to be disposed of as He sees best,
whether for joy or sorrow, blessing or chastisement—to be, to go, to do, to
suffer, even as He wills, even as He ordains, even as Christ endured, "who,
through the eternal Spirit, offered Himself without spot to God."
Oh, shrink not from any fellowship with your Lord in
suffering, who for you "endured the cross, despising the shame," and is even
now preparing for you joys which "eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither
has it entered into the heart of man to conceive!" Try to say, it may be
with trembling, faltering lips, "O my Savior, let me be silent like You, and
never open my mouth in complaining, whatever be the bitter cup You give me
to drink; for it can only be a cup of blessing to Your redeemed child, for
whom You have borne the curse, and exhausted the cup of wrath and
indignation."
Be comforted, too, by the thought that submission
is pleasing in your Father's sight. The sooner you gain the spirit of a
child, the sooner will the cross, the trial, the suffering, be removed. Not
that you are to try to bear with patience in order to be freed from
chastisement, but because you will be doing "that which is pleasing to Him;"
and when you do, He will enable you to "rejoice with exceeding joy."
And oh, suffering child! will not this help us to be more
patient and submissive—the thought that "yet a little while, and He who
shall come will come, and will not tarry." Then will He give rest to the
weary, and consolation to the sorrowful. Their peace shall be as a river,
ever flowing; they shall have entered into "the joy of their Lord." No more
sin, nor any more guilt, no more penitence, no more trial, no infirmity to
depress us, no false affection to mislead us, no passion to transport us, no
prejudice to blind us, no sloth, no pride, no envy, no strife, but the light
of God's countenance, and a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal,
proceeding out of the throne of God. That is our home. Here we
are but on our pilgrimage, our path tangled and thorny, our rest broken and
disturbed, our spiritual vision dim and obscured.
No more, child of God—your very sufferings on earth, so
soon to be over, so small compared with your deservings, so short in
duration compared with eternity, "shall work for you a far more exceeding
and eternal weight of glory." Oh! surely this consideration will also
help to increase your patience under suffering. Your glory is to
superabound, as your afflictions have abounded. Your eternal refreshings
will be measured out to you by the cup of trial you have drunk. God has
beaten and hammered you only to make you a vessel unto honor. All sorrow and
sighing shall then flee away, and everlasting joy be upon your head. Why
then complain because God designs to make you very glorious? Does He
injure you in thus rendering you fit for a higher and nobler
place in heaven? Impatience and fretfulness can free you from no other
weight but one, and that is "an exceeding and eternal weight of
glory." Suffering may seem long and weary, and, for the present, grievous;
yet it is but a little moment, a twinkling of an eye, compared with the
everlasting inheritance of the saints in light, when the days of your
mourning shall be ended.
Oh, fear not, trembling believer! Your Father knows the
weight and duration of your sorrows and trials. He sees the end from the
beginning, and the happy outcome out of all your afflictions which He has in
store for you. Trust Him, submit to Him; no sorrow has been mingled in your
cup, no thorn has been scattered on your path, no grief has oppressed your
spirit, but what "is common to the whole family of God." The Shepherd is
leading you by a circuitous path, but in the right way to His own blessed
fold. Leave all to Him—to His faithfulness, His love, His power, His
watchful, sleepless care. Let your song be—
"He has led me through the wilderness,
A long and lonely way;
He has soothed me with His tenderness,
And fed me day by day.
"Oh, better far the wilderness
And desert way to me,
If, wandering in its loneliness,
I should be nearer Thee!"
As you advance, still trying more and more to submit to
your Father's will, in every fresh trouble imploring fresh grace—in every
onset of the evil heart to resist God's pleasure, crying to Him for
help—your prayer will be answered. Mercies you do not dream of now will be
strewn around your footsteps. Powers which until now have lain as sleeping
shadows within you, will awake to life—powers of faith, of hope, of love,
and of that perfect patience and submission which will enable you to lift
your streaming eyes to heaven, and say, "Lord, I am Yours; do with me what
You will—send me what You plead; only abide with me." Then let the shadows
of evening fall—let your path be dark and desolate—let your burden be heavy,
your cross painful—in the surrounding stillness you will hear voices
cheering you onward, voices from the everlasting hills, and the sound as of
the waving of angels' wings around you.
One, too, mightier than the angels will make His presence
felt; and as you place your trembling hand in His, and cry, "Lord, guide me,
for I cannot see," there will descend a stream of light upon your darkening
path, and peace so perfect, that, with songs of praise and thanksgiving, you
will pursue your way, willing to wait, willing to endure, willing to do all
things and to suffer all things, for His dear sake who is leading you
through the valley of the shadow of death—to the fountains of living
waters—to the land of everlasting joy!
O You who are the God of patience and consolation,
strengthen me in the inner man, that I may bear Your yoke and burden without
murmuring. May I heartily love You, entirely confide in You, and absolutely
resign both soul and body to Your wise disposal. Lord, I am sensible that I
am far from exercising that unreserved submission to Your will which I ought
to exercise. Help me, I beseech You, so to trust in Your infinite goodness
and unerring wisdom, that I may be able to say, from my very heart, "May
Your will be done." Oh, teach me to be grateful for the manifold comforts
allotted me; and support me graciously, that my soul be not cast down and
disturbed within me. Assist me to cherish penitent, believing, and serious
thoughts and affections, and such meekness and patience as my Divine Master
manifested while He was a sufferer on earth. Give me a deep sense of my
sinfulness, that I may ever be humbled before You, and may feel Your great
mercy and forbearance towards me.
Grant that all Your dispensations may be sanctified by
Your Holy Spirit, and be instrumental in preparing me for that happy state
where peace, and purity, and love are perfected—where there is no more sin,
no strife, no sorrow—where the former things are passed away, and You make
all things new. Hear, gracious Lord, accept, and answer, and bless Your
servant, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.
REST
It was Your will, my Father,
That laid Your servant low;
It was Your hand, my Father,
That dealt the chastening blow;
It was Your mercy bade me rest
My weary soul a while;
And every blessing I receive,
Reflects Your gracious smile.
It is Your care, my Father,
That cherishes me now;
It is Your peace, my Father,
That rests upon my brow;
It is Your truth, Your truth alone,
That gives my spirit rest,
And soothes me like a happy child
Upon its mother's breast.
I have known youth, my Father,
Bright as a summer's day,
And earthly love, my Father;
But that too passed away.
Now life's small candle faintly burns—
A little flickering flame,
But Your eternal love remains
Unchangeably the same.
—The Dove on the Cross