March 1, Morning
C. H. Spurgeon · Modern retelling
"Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out." — Song of Songs 4:16 · KJV
Anything is better than the dead calm of indifference. Our souls may wisely desire the north wind of trouble, if that alone can be sanctified to draw out the perfume of our graces. So long as it cannot be said, "The Lord was not in the wind," we will not shrink from the most wintry blast that ever blew on the plants of grace. Did not the bride in this verse humbly submit herself to the reproofs of her Beloved, only asking Him to send forth His grace in some form, and making no condition as to the particular way it should come? Did she not, like us, grow so utterly weary of deadness and unholy calm that she sighed for any visitation that would rouse her to action? Yet she desires the warm south wind of comfort too — the smiles of divine love, the joy of the Redeemer's presence — for these are often mightily effective to stir our sluggish life. She desires either one or the other, or both, so that she may be able to delight her Beloved with the spices of her garden. She cannot bear to be unfruitful, and neither can we. How cheering the thought that Jesus can find comfort in our poor, feeble graces! Can it be? It seems far too good to be true. Well may we welcome trial, or even death itself, if by it we may be helped to gladden Immanuel's heart. Oh, that our heart were crushed to atoms, if only by such bruising our sweet Lord Jesus could be glorified! Graces unexercised are like sweet perfumes slumbering in the cups of the flowers; the wisdom of the great Husbandman overrules diverse and opposite causes to produce the one desired result, making both affliction and consolation draw out the grateful fragrances of faith, love, patience, hope, resignation, joy, and the other fair flowers of the garden. May we know by sweet experience what this means.