sorrow.

The comfort in such a grief, is that which comes through faith in God
even in the sore pain. The child was given to God in his infancy, and
was brought up as God's child along his early years. Who will say that
he may not yet, in some way, at some time, be brought back to God? The
daily burden may then daily be laid in the divine hands. The heart's
anguish may express itself not in despairing cries, but in believing
prayers, inspired by the promises, and kindled into fervency by blessed
hope. Then peace will come, not painless peace, but peace which lies
on Christ's bosom in the darkness, and loves and trusts and asks no
questions, but waits with all of hope's expectancy.

At the same time we are never to forget, while we trust God for the
outcome of our disappointments, that every sorrow has its mission to
our life. There is something he desires it to work in us. What it may
be in any particular instance we cannot tell; nor is it wise for us to
ask. The wisest, truest thing we can do is reverently to open our
hearts to the ministry of the sorrow, asking God to do his will in us,
not allowing us to hinder the beautiful work he would do, and helping
us to rejoice even in the grief. The tears may continue to flow, but
then with Mrs. Browning we can sing:--

"I praise thee while my days go on;
I love thee while my days go on;
Through dark and death, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank thee while my days go on."

The other letter referred to is from another father, over whom wave
after wave of sorrow had passed. Within a brief space of time two
children were taken away. The one was a son who had entered his
professional career, and had large hope and promise for the future--a
young man of rare abilities and many noble qualities. The other was a
daughter, who had reached womanhood, and was a happy and beloved wife,
surrounded by friends and the refinements of a beautiful home, and all
that makes life sweet and desirable. Both of these children God took,
one soon after the other. The father, a man of most tender affections,
and yet of implicit faith in God, uttered no murmur when called to
stand at the graves of his beloved ones; and yet his heart cries out
for interpretation.

He writes: "In one of your books[1] I find these words: 'Sometimes our
best beloved are taken away from us, and our hearts are left bleeding,
as a vine bleeds when a green branc