day no. 15,438 continued... but a little cloud

I read this today on Doug Wilson's blog and was greatly encouraged...

"One one occasion the Roman emperor, Julian the Apostate, told the people of Alexandria that they could choose another bishop for themselves, but that Athanasius had to leave Alexandria. Athanasius encouraged his friends by telling them that Julian was “but a little cloud” that was going to soon pass over... And this confidence from an early church father can provide us with another bit of encouragement in troublous times. We are in our day confronted with quite a cluster of challenges, from Biden to Big Tech, and a range of other tedious troubles in between. And all of them are but a little cloud."

This reminded me of the following poems for reasons I trust will be obvious.

God Moves in a Mysterious Way

by William Cowper

God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform;

he plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines, of never-failing skill;

he fashions up his bright designs, and works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, the clouds that you much dread,

are big with mercy and will break in blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace;

behind a frowning providence, he hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour;

the bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err, and scan his work in vain;

God is his own interpreter, and he will make it plain.

The Destruction of Sennacherib

by Lord Byron (George Gordon)

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!