The best things in life are the result of being wounded. Wheat
must be crushed before becoming bread, and incense must be
burned by fire before its fragrance is set free. The earth must
be broken with a sharp plow before being ready to receive the
seed. And it is a broken heart that pleases God.
Yes, the sweetest joys of life are the fruits of sorrow. Human
nature seems to need suffering to make it fit to be a blessing
to the world.
If you aspire to be a person of consolation, if you want to
share the priestly gift of sympathy, if you desire to go beyond
giving commonplace comfort to a heart that is tempted, and if
you long to go through the daily exchanges of life with the kind
of tact that never inflicts pain, then you must be prepared to
pay the price for a costly education—for like Christ, you must
Beside my cottage door it grows,
The loveliest, daintiest flower that blows,
A sweetbrier rose.
At dewy morn or twilight’s close,
The rarest perfume from it flows,
This strange wild rose.
But when the raindrops on it beat,
Ah, then, its odors grow more sweet,
About my feet.
Often with loving tenderness,
Its soft green leaves I gently press,
In sweet caress.
A still more wondrous fragrance flows
The more my fingers close
And crush the rose.
Dear Lord, oh, let my life be so
Its perfume when strong winds blow,
The sweeter flow.
And should it be Your blessed will,
With crushing grief my soul to fill,
Press harder still.
And while its dying fragrance flows
I’ll whisper low,“He loves and knows
His crushed brier rose.”