Sorrow was beautiful, but her beauty was the beauty of the moonlight shining through the leafy branches of the trees in the wood, and making little pools of silver here and there on the soft green moss below.  When Sorrow sang, her notes were like the low sweet call of the nightingale, and in her eyes was the unexpected gaze of one who has ceased to look for coming gladness.  She could weep in tender sympathy with those who weep, but to rejoice with those who rejoice was unknown to her.

Joy was beautiful, too, but his was the radiant beauty of the summer mornings.  His eyes still held the glad laughter of childhood, and his hair had the glint of the sunshine’s kiss.  When Joy sang his voice soared upward as the lark’s and his step was the step of a conqueror who has never known defeat.  He could rejoice with all who rejoice but to weep with those who weep was unknown to him.

“But we can never be united,”  said Sorrow wistfully.  “No, never.”  And Joy’s eyes shadowed as he spoke.  “My path lies through the sunlit meadows, the sweetest roses await my coming to pour forth their most joyous lays.”

“My path, “ said Sorrow, turning slowly away, “leads through the darkening woods, with moon-flowers only shall my hands be filled.  Yet the sweetest of all earth-songs–the love song of the night shall be mine; farewell, Joy, farewell.”

Even as she spoke they became conscious of a form standing beside them; dimly seen, but of a Kingly Presence, and a great and holy awe stole over them as they sank on their knees before Him.

“I see Him as the King of Joy,”  whispered Sorrow, “for on His head are many crowns, and the nail prints in His hands and feet are the scars of a great victory.  Before Him all my sorrow is melting away into deathless love and gladness, and I give myself to Him forever.”

“Nay, Sorrow,” said Joy softly, “but I see Him as the King of Sorrow, and the crown on His head is a crown of thorns and the nail prints in His hands and feet are the scars of a great agony.  I, too, give myself to Him forever, for sorrow with Him must be sweeter than any joy that I have known.”

“Then we are one in Him,” they cried in gladness, “for none but He can unite Joy and Sorrow.”  Hand in hand they passed out into the world to follow Him through storm and sunshine, in the bleakness of winter cold and the warmth of summer gladness, “as sorrowful yet always rejoicing.”

      -Taken from Streams in the Desert

Mrs. Charles E. Cowman

You whose birth broke all the social and biological rules—
son of the poor who accepted
the worship due a king—
child prodigy debating with
the Temple Th.D.’s—you
were the kind who used
a new math
to multiply bread, fish, faith.
You practiced a
radical sociology:
rehabilitated con men and
call girls, you valued women and other minority groups.
a GP, you specialized in
heart transplants.
Creator, healer,
shepherd, innovator,
story-teller, weather-maker,
botanist, alchemist,
exorcist, iconoclast,
seeker, seer, motive-sifter,
you were always beyond,
above us. Ahead
of your time, and ours.

And we would like
to be like you. Bold
as Boanerges, we hear ourselves
demand: ‘Admit us
to your avant-garde.
Grant us degree
in all the liberal arts of heaven.”
Why our belligerence?
Why does this whiff of fame
and greatness smell so sweet?
Why must we compete
to be first? Have we forgotten
how you took simply cool water
and a towel for our feet?

-Luci Shaw