Bearing the burden of crushing weight actually gives Christians wings.

This may sound like a contradiction in terms, but it is a blessed truth. While enduring a severe trial, David cried, “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest” (Psalm 55:6). Yet before he finished his meditation, he seems to have realized that his wish for wings was attainable, for then he said, “Cast your cares on the LORD and he will sustain you” (Psalm 55:22).

The word “burden” is described in my Bible commentary as being “what Jehovah has given you.” The saints’ burdens are God-given, leading us to wait upon Him. And once we have done so, the burden is transformed into a pair of wings through the miracle of trust, and the one who was weighted down “will soar on wings like eagles” (Isaiah 40:31).

One day when walking down the street, On business bent, while thinking hard About the “hundred cares” which seemed Like thunder clouds about to break In torrents, Self-pity said to me: “You poor, poor thing, you have too much To do. Your life is far too hard. This heavy load will crush you soon.”

A swift response of sympathy Welled up within. The burning sun Seemed more intense. The dust and noise Of puffing motors flying past With rasping blast of blowing horn Incensed still more the whining nerves, The fabled last back-breaking straw To weary, troubled, fretting mind.

“Ah yes, it will break and crush my life; I cannot bear this constant strain Of endless, aggravating cares; They are too great for such as I.”

So thus my heart consoled itself, “Enjoying misery,” when lo! A “still small voice” distinctly said, “’Twas sent to lift you—not to crush.”

I saw at once my great mistake. My place was not beneath the load But on the top! God meant it not That I should carry it. He sent It here to carry me. Full well He knew my incapacity Before the plan was made. He saw A child of His in need of grace And power to serve; a puny twig Requiring sun and rain to grow; An undeveloped chrysalis; A weak soul lacking faith in God.

He could not help but see all this And more. And then, with tender thought He placed it where it had to grow— Or die. To lie and cringe beneath One’s load means death, but life and power Await all those who dare to rise above.

Our burdens are our wings; on them We soar to higher realms of grace; Without them we must ever roam On plains of undeveloped faith, (For faith grows but by exercise In circumstance impossible).

O paradox of Heaven. The load We think will crush was sent to lift us Up to God! Then, soul of mine, Climb up! Nothing can e’er be crushed Save what is underneath the weight.

How may we climb! By what ascent Will we crest the critical cares Of life! Within His word is found The key which opens His secret stairs; Alone with Christ, secluded there, We mount our loads, and rest in Him.

MARY BUTTERFIELD