A beautiful picture was painted by one of the greatest of the European artists: The Consoler. It is a picture of a bedroom in an English cottage. On the bed sits a beautiful little babe, perhaps a year in age, having in his hand a toy soldier that he is holding very lovingly to his body. He is unconscious of anything about him. Back of him on the wall is the picture of a young man in soldier’s dress—the baby’s father. On her knees, her head in her hands, is the young widow robed in deepest black, sobbing her heart out.

One of the saddest pictures the world shall ever know—a baby to forget and never know his father; a young widow to go down through life with burdened, broken heart. But leaning over her, with the light of heaven on His beautiful face, is One who lays His hand lovingly on her shoulder. We do not wonder the great artist has called the picture The Consoler.

With His healing hand on a broken heart, And the other on a star, Our wonderful God views the miles apart, And they seem not very far.

Oh, it makes us cry—then laugh—then sing, Tho’ ’tis all beyond our ken; He bindeth up wounds on that poor crushed thing, And He makes it whole again.

Was there something shone from that healed new heart Made the Psalmist think of stars— That bright as the sun or the lightning’s dart, Sped away past earthly bars?

In a low place sobbing by death’s lone cart, Then a flight on whirlwind’s cars; One verse is about a poor broken heart, And the next among the stars.

There is hope and help for our sighs and tears, For the wound that stings and smarts; Our God is at home with the rolling spheres, And at home with broken hearts.

MAMIE PAYNE FERGUSON

“Let God cover thy wounds,” said Augustine, “do not thou. For if thou wish to cover them being ashamed, the Physician will not come. Let Him cover; for by the covering of the Physician the wound is healed; by the covering of the wounded man the wound is concealed. And from whom? From Him who knoweth all things.”

The Great Lover comes close behind the storm, And whispers softly to the broken mountaintops, And fills their wounds with clean fresh odors.

The Great Lover knows the pain of blasted trees And binds up tenderly their broken arms; The Great Lover has gone through many storms.

MATTHEW BILLER