â€œWhere is God my Maker, who gives songs in the night?â€
From Michael Guido, Seeds from the Sower:
My mother started giving me violin lessons when I was six years old, and for a long time I earned a living just by playing around.
But after many years of practicing, I still couldn’t get any music from a violin string coiled up in a case.
Attached to my instrument, and stretched tightly, I was able to produce ravishing music.
Tension is essential. The string that knows no tension knows no music. And the saint that knows no tension knows no melody.
The Lord is the master Musician. Trust Him, and He’ll make the troublesome tension work for your good. Then your life will become a beautiful masterpiece.
Our sorrow and trials come to provide us with the proper training for His heavenly choir. Some of the sweetest melodies arise from the most profound agonies of the soul.
George Matheson wrote:
No angel, nor even an archangel, will be able to sing the song as beautifully as we will. To do so would require them to pass through our trials, which is something they cannot do. Only the children of the Cross will be equipped to learn the song.
He has brought you into your place of darkness so that you may trust Him today to reveal that hidden treasure wrapped in Himself and His goodness.
Today we may not see the concluding result of Godâ€™s wonderful plan He has hidden “in the shadow of his hand” (Isaiah 49:2). It may be concealed for a long time, but our faith can rest in the assurance that while we are in the valley, God is seated on His throne. Some glad day we will sing a new song, a glorious song. Just remember: â€œThe string that knows no tension knows no music. And the saint [who] knows no tension knows no melody.â€
Some songs can only be learned in the darkest night. In the valley the Master Musician is composing our song, tuning our voice, and sweetening our melody.
And many a heavenly singer
Among those sons of light,
Will say of His sweetest music,
â€œI learned it in the night.â€
And many a lovely anthem,
That fills the Fatherâ€™s home,
Sobbed out its first rehearsal,
In the shade of a darkened room. â€“from Streams in the Desert