Hope in Suffering

Ye Fearful Saints, Fresh Courage Take

Just in case you haven’t recently re-read all of the words to the hymn I quoted briefly in my first post from today, here they are for your enjoyment and edification.

(By the way … the first time someone quoted this hymn to me, I was in a dark season of the worst suffering of my life. I could barely breathe in and out each morning. Everything around me was collapsing. Nothing made sense. My bones were crushed. I had never felt more angry and more depressed and more alone. So when someone said, “Trust God!” and “God moves in a mysterious way!”, deep inside, all I felt was MAD. So, no, these words were neither comforting nor beautiful to me. I was far too hurt and far too angry to hear them. But I still read them and some tiny, minuscule, ridiculously lacking-in-faith, deeply hurt part of me squeaked out a feeble, “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!” And now I look back on that season with a different perspective. I hear these words from the mouth of a saint with softer ears.

If you are suffering today; if life doesn’t make sense; if the cross you are called to carry is cutting your skin and causing you to bleed … I pray that even in your pain, you might be able to hear even just one line of truth, deep inside your soul. God is sovereign. God is good. Trustworthy. With you. Compassionate to your suffering. He cares. He hears. He is doing something about it. The wrong will fail. The right prevail. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!)

God Moves In A Mysterious Way

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain. 

 

 

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