A piece of wood once bitterly complained because it was being cut and filled with rifts and holes, but he who held the wood and whose knife was cutting into it so remorselessly did not listen to the sore complaining. He was making a flute out of the wood he held and was too wise to desist when entreated to do so. He said:

“Oh, thou foolish piece of wood, without these rifts and holes thou wouldst be only a mere stick forever—a bit of hard black ebony with no power to make music or to be of any use. These rifts that I am making, which seem to be destroying thee, will change thee into a flute, and thy sweet music then shall charm the souls of men. My cutting thee is the making of thee, for then thou shalt be precious and valuable, and a blessing in the world.”

David could never have sung his sweetest songs had he not been sorely afflicted. His afflictions made his life an instrument on which God could breathe the music of His love to charm and soothe the hearts of men.

We are but organs mute till a Master touches the keys—

Verily, vessels of earth into which God poureth the wine;

Harps are we—silent harps that have hung in the willow trees,

Dumb till our heartstrings swell and break with a pulse Divine.

Not till the life is broken is it ready for the Master’s use.