242 MEMOIR OF GEORGE WILSON. CHAP. IX. 



Thou art like a mine deep sunken 



Far beneath the earth and sky, 

 From the shaft of which, upgazing, 



Weary workers can descry, 

 Even when those on earth see nothing, 



Great stars shining bright on high. 



So within thy dark recesses, 



Clothed in his robes of white, 

 To the sufferer Christ appeareth 



In a new and blessed light, 

 Which the glare of day outshining 



Hid from his unshaded sight. 



Silent, dimly-lighted chamber, 



Like the living eye, 

 If thou wert not dark, no vision 



Could be had of things on high ; 

 By the untempered daylight blinded, 



With closed eyelids we should lie. 



Oh my God ! light up each chamber 



Where a sufferer lies, 

 By thine own eternal glory, 



Tempered for those tearful eyes, 

 As it comes from Him reflected 



Who was once the sacrifice. 



Arter returning home some weeks later, he writes to Dr. 

 Cairns " a few lines, for my arm is still very stiff, and aches 

 with a little work, to thank you for your kindness, not in 

 formal words, but none the less with a grateful heart. I 

 hope I have learned something more of God's judgments 

 and mercies than I ever knew before. I went to Rothesay 

 in a humbled spirit, craving most of all rest, and seeking to 

 spend a season of exhaustion and enforced quietude in self- 

 examination and submission to God. In this spirit the trial 

 He sent came not as something strange, but as if it fitted 

 into the daily discipline of the life I was leading. And now 

 I look back on the last two months with a more lowly, chas- 

 tened, and grateful heart than I felt towards my Saviour 



