Two painters were once asked to paint a picture illustrating their own idea of rest. The first chose for his scene a quiet, lonely lake, nestled among mountains far away. The second, using swift, broad strokes on his canvas, painted a thundering waterfall. Beneath the falls grew a fragile birch tree, bending over the foam. On its branches, nearly wet with the spray from the falls, sat a robin on its nest.
The first painting was simply a picture of stagnation and inactivity.
The second, however, depicted rest.
Outwardly, Christ endured one of the most troubled lives ever lived. Storms and turmoil, turmoil and storms—wave after wave broke over him until his worn body was laid in the tomb. Yet his inner life was as smooth as a sea of glass, and a great calm was always there.
Anyone could have gone to him at any time and found rest.
Even as the human bloodhounds were dogging him in the streets of Jerusalem, he turned to his disciples, offering them a final legacy: “My peace.”
Rest is not some holy feeling that comes upon us in church. It is a state of calm rising from a heart deeply and firmly established in God.
~ Henry Drummond ~
My peace I give in times of deepest grief,
Imparting calm and trust and my relief.
My peace I give when prayer seems lost, unheard;
Know that my promises are ever in my Word.
My peace I give when you are left alone—
The nightingale at night has sweetest tone.
My peace I give in times of utter loss,
The way of glory leads right to the cross.
My peace I give when enemies will blame,
Your fellowship is sweet through cruel shame.
My peace I give in agony and sweat,
For my own brow with bloody drops was wet.
My peace I give when nearest friend betrays—
Peace that is merged in love, and for them prays.
My peace I give when there’s but death for thee—
The gateway is the cross to get to me.
~ L. S. P. ~