A TUFT OF MOSS. 89 



hairs of our head are all numbered. The conclusion 

 therefore is as irresistible as it is welcome, that we 

 need not fear any of the ills of life, for they could 

 have no power at all against us, except it were given 

 them from above by One who is too wise to err, and 

 who so loved us that He did not spare His own Son, 

 but delivered Him up for us all. In our sorest affliction 

 He keepeth all our bones ; not one of them is broken. 



All these precious thoughts are brought home with 

 greater power and tenderness to our hearts because 

 the object that suggests them is not one of the mighty 

 things of creation, but one of the smallest and humblest. 

 Our Lord's argument with regard to the lilies of the 

 field has even greater force to those who can appreciate 

 it, when it comes from the inconspicuous bloom of a 

 moss which needs the microscope to disclose its beauty 

 and wonder. It teaches us that it is the production, 

 not of One who is infinitely great and far removed from 

 us, so that we can only reverently admire Him at an 

 immeasurable distance; but of One who in His un- 

 fathomable love has come down and assumed our 

 nature, and who cares for the minutest things of our 

 individual life. When we look up and consider the 

 heavens, the work of God's fingers, we are awed and 

 dwarfed into insignificance in our own estimation; 

 but when we look down and consider the lowly moss 

 that adorns the wayside wall, we recover the sense of 

 our individuality, and feel that we are of more value 

 than all these things. And just as in human experience 

 it is not the bestowal of costly gifts, which may be 



