"He maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth and his hands make whole." (Job 5:18)

The ministry of a great sorrow.

As we pass beneath the hills which have been shaken by the earthquake and torn by convulsion, we find that periods of perfect repose succeed those of destruction. The pools of calm water lie clear beneath their fallen rocks, the water lilies gleam, and the reeds whisper among the shadows; the village rises again over the forgotten graves, and its church tower, white through the storm twilight, proclaims a renewed appeal to His protection "in whose hand are all the corners of the earth, and the strength of the hills is his also." –Ruskin.

God ploughed one day with an earthquake,

And drove His furrows deep!

The huddling plains upstarted,

The hills were all aleap!

But that is the mountains' secret,

Age-hidden in their breast;

"God's peace is everlasting,"

Are the dream-words of their rest.