Text
and art by I. Lilias Trotter
He maketh small the drops of
"water". I have never seen how
literally true that is till I began studying the
dew these mornings. Let a drop fall from your
finger and you will see its natural size: but
that would be too heavy for the frail little
blades to bear - it would slip off them from its
weight - so He weighs out to each the tiny
measure that it can bear without even being bowed
down, yet enough to "drink into" in
abundance. On one wee filament of moss I counted
through a magnifying glass forty-six little
globes of water in what just looked like moisture
to the naked eye - on one side only, without
turning it.
Another thing - the grass has to
stand very still as it holds its precious
"weight of glory" - and so has the soul
on whom the dew of the Spirit comes - literally
easily as this dew, His dew is brushed off - some
of us know it to our cost - an impulse of
impatience - a sense of hurry or worry allowed to
touch us - a mere movement of the self-life
against His checking, and He is gone, and our
soul stands stripped and bare. Noiseless must be
His Holy Habitation within us - still with the
stillness of the Holiest Place of old, with all
the camp sounds shut out by the four-fold curtain
and the very footfall of the priests hushed by
the desert sand.
Oh, the desert is lovely in its
restfulness - the great brooding stillness over
and through everything is so full of God. One
does not wonder that He used to take His people
out into the wilderness to teach them.
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