Wauwatosa news. [volume] (Wauwatosa, Wis.) 1900-1948, 1909-09-10
SONGS IN THE NIGHT.

By Henry T. Cope.
God, my maker, who giyeth songs
IN the night. job So: 10.
1t is remarkable that those people
who have strengthened the world
store of optimism have been those who
were educated in the school of suffer
ing, while those who have left only
memory of pessimistic complaining
nave usually had least OF which to
complain; their lives have seemed sad
because of habitual self-absorption.
Job in his losses, David ip his exile,
Jesus as the man OF sorrows, Bunyan
in his prison, Milton in his blindness.
Robert Louis Stevenson in his th-aD-
dom of disease, all have taught US to
look up, to hope, to have faith in the
eternal goodness, to catch the blessing
in the guise OF pain and loss, and to
earn for ourselves the crown Of joy
that blooms through sorrow.
The problem Of pain is always great
er to those who must stand by and see
others suffer, perhaps unable to help
them by any means, than 1t is for
those who themselves must bear the
pain. 1t Is true there Is no wholly sat
isfactory solution of the mystery of
suffering, none that satisfies US in its
real presence, but in its effects. In its
fru1tage on those who face ii in high
courage, we may see some suggestions
Of its meaning in our universe.
This is the worlds great school, the
place where the affections and the
higher attributes are educated. Here
we learn patience, fortitude, faith,
sympathy, strength to serve and to
lead. None OF the lessons are such
that we would seek them of ourselves;
none are such that we would lose them
afterward If we could.
1t is the pain that enters the home
that binds the family together. Never
are the ties stronger than when all
gather by the couch of suffering or
when they stand together straining
their eyes across the great void Only
those who know realize how homes are
hallowed by the fact of belonging to
two worlds.
Out of suffering rise our great songs.
The poetry that reaches our heart has
been written by eyes blinded by tears.
It opens its riches to US when we read
it in the same way. Just as liberty
has been born in prison walls, so has
Joy and the confidence of final victory
over disease and pain come out OF the
hours of anguish and broken spirit
Perhaps if we could probe the mys-
terry Of suffering we might be tempted
to administer its curriculum ourselves
We can only for ourselves determine
that 1t shall not conquer US, that we
shall not be like dull schoolboys who
weep over their lessons instead Of
learning them, that this world shall
lose all unnecessary suffering and gain
all the good out of all that remains
So when the night comes II is for
us to determine whether it shall In
spire US to song or lead us with com
| plainings to make it yet darker. Here
is the time to sing when it is hardest
OF all to raise the voice in cheer and
encouragement. When It Is our night
there are always others who would be
aided by our song. Blessed are those
who sing in the shadows.
Somehow, to believe that love is
over all, that the infinite goodness is
greater than all the evil, to know with
the old man Job rat, though affiiction
| may rob me OF all that men call my
possessions, the abiding and unchang-
ing values remain, that suffering after
all only pricks the surface-that is to
find a song in the darkest hour.
And these experiences make tender
our hearts to one another; my need
reminds me Of my neighbor. We would
soon be caIloused utterly Indifferent,
| but for these blows that break up the
surface of the life. The poor and
| those who know need are tenderest in
heart one to another Just to acquire
the grace OF sympathy were worth the
course in sorrow.
We may not solve the mystery of
suffering, but we can face it and sing
through it; we can take all the good
| there is in It to ourselves and make
our own lives sweet and refreshing
through it. We can sing songs in the
night; we can learn patience with one
| another We can keep our own hearts
open in sympathy; we can turn the
l., -
| life for to think OF the sorrows Of
others is TO find the joy that lies hid
| den In every sorrow for US.
FAINT HEART NEVER WINS.
By DR. George Clarke Peck.