| The Beauty of Self Control |
Chapter 2 |
Page 7 |
Ploughing is hard work. It is hard for him who follows the plough through the long furrows. There seems to be no reward for him. It is all painful work that he does – cutting and crushing the soil. He sees no growing seed, no golden harvest. It is all weariness, aches and toil for him, with nothing to cheer his heart, nothing to enrich him. The reaper rejoices as he thrusts in his sickle and then threshes out the yellow grain. But the work of the ploughman seems destruction for the time. Yet in the end it proves to be glorious work. In a little poem quoted in the British Weekly, the plough is represented as speaking thus of its work:
“‘I feed the peoples.
Eagerly wait on me
High born and low born, pale children of want.
Kingdoms may rise and wane,
War claim her tithe of slain,
Hands are outstretched to me.
Master of men am I, seeming a slave.
I feed the peoples, I, the plough.
“‘I prove God’s word true–
Toiling that earth may give
Fruit men shall gather with songs in the sun.
Where sleeps the hidden grain
Cornfields shall wave again;
Showing that while men live
Nor seed nor harvest time ever will cease.
I prove God’s words true, I, the plough.’”
It is hard also for the soil, to have the plough of God driven through our hearts and over our lives, breaking them and crushing them. Oh, how heavy God’s plough is, as it is dragged over us, its sharp share cutting into the very quick of our being. Rough is the plough work. It has no comfort in it. No reward is apparent. The plough cuts remorselessly. But the ploughman may have visions of a rich outcome from all his toil. There will be a harvest by and by, when, in the place where his share now cuts, golden grain will wave, and he will fill his bosom with sheaves. You cry out today because of the pain you suffer as God’s plough cuts into your life and seems to be spoiling all its beauty. But look forward. First the plough, then the fields with their glorious grain. Now you know nothing but pain; hereafter you will reap joy from the places now scarred and furrowed.
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