his heart without reserve to the two great claims of the ideal and
sympathy, and he shall come to know that he has not found the hidden
meaning of daily service, nor learned how he can best perform that service,
until he has tasted the sorrow at the heart of it. The tears that are the
pledge of harvest are not called to the eyes by ridicule or opposition.
They are not the tears of disappointment, vexation, or impotence. They are
tears that dim the eyes of them that see visions, and gather in the heart
of them that dream dreams. To see the glory of God in the face of Jesus
Christ and the blindness of the world's heart to that glory; to see
unveiled the beauty that should be, and, unveiled too, the shame that is;
to have a spiritual nature that thrills at the touch of the perfect love
and life, and responds to every note of pain borne in upon it from the
murmurous trouble of the world,--this is to have inward fitness for the
high work of the Kingdom. Yes, and it is the pledge that this work shall be
done. There is such a thing as artistic grief. There is the vain and
languorous pity of aestheticism. Its robe of sympathy is wrapped about
itself and bejewelled with its own tears. And it never goes forth. You
never meet it in 'the darkness of the terrible streets.'

_He that goeth forth and weepeth._ It is his tears that cause him to go
forth. It is his sorrow that will not let him rest. True pity is a mighty
motive. When the real abiding pathos of life has gripped a man's heart, you
will find him afield doing the work of the Lord. You will not see his
tears. There will be a smile in his eyes and, maybe, a song on his lips.
For the sorrow and the joy of service dwell side by side in a man's life.
Indeed, they often seem to him to be but one thing. It were a mistake to
refer the whole meaning of the words about a man's coming 'again with
rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him' to some far day when the reapers
of God shall gather the last great harvest of the world. Through his tears
the sower sees the harvest. Through all his life there rings many a sweet
prophetic echo of the harvest home.

_He that goeth forth and weepeth._ No man ever wept like that and went not
forth, but some go forth who have not wept. And they go forth to certain
failure. They mishandle life, and with good intent do harm. But that is not
the worst thing to be said about these toilers without tears. It is not
that they touch life so unskilfully, but t