Some sorrows seem beyond the reach of
consolation, in as much as their causes seem beyond setting right. They
can at best, _as it seems_, only be covered over. Forgetfulness
alone seems capable of removing their sting, and from that cure every
noble mind turns away as unworthy both of itself, and of its Father in
heaven. But the human heart has to go through much before it is able to
house even a suspicion of the superabounding riches of the creating and
saving God. The foolish child thinks there can be nothing where he sees
nothing; the human heart feels as if where it cannot devise help, there
is none possible to God; as if God like the heart must be content to
botch the thing up, and make, as we say, the best of it.
But as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are his ways higher
than our ways, and his thoughts than our thoughts.
"But what _can_ be done when--so and so?" says my reader; for,
whatever generalities I utter, his hurt seems not the less
unapproachable of any help. You think, I answer, that you see all round
your own sorrow; whereas much the greater part of the very being you
call yours, is as unknown to you as the other side of the moon.
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