He shall call upon Me, and, I will answer him. But I have called, says one, and He has not answered.  I called upon Him when my little child was sick unto death, and, spite my calling, the little white soul fluttered noiselessly into the great beyond.  My friend, you call that tiny green mound in the churchyard God’s silence.  Some day you will call it God’s answer.  Our prayers are sometimes torn out of our hearts by the pain of the moment.  God’s answers come forth from the unerring quiet of eternity.  ’He shall call upon Me.’  ’He shall ask Me to help him, but he does not know how he can be helped.  He is hedged about by a thousand limitations of thought.  His life is full of distortions.  He cannot distinguish between a blessing and a curse.  I cannot heed the dictations of his prayers, but I will answer him.’  This is the voice of Him to whom the ravelled complexities of men’s minds are simplicity itself; who dwells beyond the brief bewilderments and mistaken desirings and false ideals of men’s hearts.

Oh these divine answers!  How they confuse us!  It is their perfection that bewilders us; it is their completeness that carries them beyond our comprehension.

There is the stamp of the local and the temporary on all our asking.  The answer that comes is wider than life and longer than time, and fashioned after a completeness whereof we do not even dream.

I will be with him in trouble. Trouble is that in life which becomes to us a gospel of tears, a ministry of futility.  This is because we have grasped the humanity of the word and missed the divinity of it.  We are always doing that.  Always gathering the meaning of the moments and missing the meaning of the years.  Always smarting under the sharp discipline and missing the merciful design:  ‘With Him in trouble.’  That helps me to believe in my religion.  Trouble is the test of the creeds.  A fig for the orthodoxy that cannot interpret tears!  Write vanity upon the religion that is of no avail in the house of sorrow.  When the earthly song falls on silence we are disposed to call it a pitiable silence.  Not so.  Let us say a divinely opportune silence, for when the many voices grow dumb the One Voice speaks:  ‘I will be with him in trouble,’ and the man who has lost the everything that is nothing only to find the one thing that is all knows what that promise means.

I will deliver him. What a masterful, availing, victorious presence is this!  How this promise goes out beyond our human ministries of consolation!  How often the most we can do is to walk by our brother’s side whilst he bears a burden we cannot share!  How often the earthly sympathy is just a communion of sad hearts—­one weak hand holding another!  ’I will deliver him.’  That is not merely sympathy, it is victory.  The divine love does not merely condole, it delivers.