At the Jerusalem Conference on Good Friday we were out on the Mount of Olives, and our hearts were deeply and strangely moved as we thought about His going out of the city yonder, up the hillside, to die.

I said to myself, “I would like to follow in His train, and catch the same passion and the same vision.”

As the meeting was closing I thought, “I will take something by which to remember this hour.” I leaned over to pluck a flower, one of the flowers that bloom in lovely profusion across the hillsides of Palestine.

As I was about to pick my wildflower, an inner voice said, “No, not the wildflower; here is the thornbush yonder; take a piece of that.”

It was the thornbush from which the crown of thorns was taken, and crushed upon the brow of Jesus.

I protested, “The thornbush is not beautiful, it is ugly; I would rather have the flower,” and I again leaned over to pick my flower.

The voice was more imperious this time and said, “No, not the flower, but the thornbush; there is something in the thornbush you do not see now; take it!”

Rather reluctantly I turned away from the wildflower and plucked a piece from the thornbush and put it in the folds of my Bible.

No, deeper; I put it within the folds of my heart and wore it there.

Weeks went by—months.

One day I chanced to look at my thornbush I had worn within my heart, and to my amazement I found it was all abloom!

The Rose of Sharon was there in lovely profusion.

There was something else in the thornbush I had not seen.

From thy brier, dear heart, shall blow a rose for others.

To some people there comes this cross, the absence of the Cross.

There is always the shadow of the Cross.

Suppose God took it away, what then?

And shall there be no cross for me in all this life of mine?

Shall mine be all a flowery path and all the thorns be Thine?

Our heav enly Father never takes any earthly thing from His children, unless He means to give them something better instead. GEORGE MUELLER

An easy thing, O Power Divine, To thank Thee for these gifts of Thine! For summer ’s sunshine, winter ’s snow , For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow; But when shall I attain to this: To thank Thee for the things I miss?

For all young fancy’ s early gleams, The dr eamed-of joys that still ar e dreams, Hope unfulfilled, and pleasur es known Through others’ fortunes, not my own, And blessings seen that ar e not given, And ne’er will be—this side of heaven.

Had I, too, shar ed the joys I see, Would ther e have been a heaven for me? Could I have felt Thy pr esence near Had I possessed what I held dear?

My deepest fortune, highest bliss, Have gr own, per chance, fr om things I miss.

Sometimes ther e comes an hour of calm; Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm; A Power that works above my will Still leads me onwar d, upwar d still; And then my heart attains to this: To thank Thee for the things I miss.

THOMAS WENTWOR TH HIGGINSON

Instead of the dry land, springs of water! Instead of heaviness, the garment of praise! Instead of the thorn, the fir tree! Instead of the brier, the myrtle tr ee! Instead of ashes, beauty! (Isaiah 41:18; 55:13; 61:3)