Voice of the Shepherdess

“Behold, I have engraved you upon the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me.” Isa. 49:16

Today I stopped at the grocery to pick up a few items and passed a product display in a rather obscure corner of the store. A young woman was offering sample to customers. I walked to the display and she began her promo talk. I listened, looking into her eyes and seeing there some suffering, something sad. She paused and our eyes locked. Compassion welled up in my heart. I saw the pain she was trying so bravely to hide. We chatted and then I asked if she was okay. She understood that I saw the hurting. “My home is breaking up,” she said finally, and I have young children.”

“I am so sorry,” I said offering sympathy, “but don’t lose hope. God can help you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Only God can help me now,” she replied.
I felt touched by her hurting heart and went to the car to retrieve a book I felt would be helpful to her. After giving her some encouraging words, I gave her the book. she cried then, and hugged me. It didn’t seem to matter that someone might be watching. She needed love, support, she needed God’s help. I wanted to reach out to her.

I came away burdened for this young woman and for others who are hurting is some way. I remember the old hymn that has been my mantra throughout my life. There is a God who loves us; who cares so much that He has graven our image upon the palms of His hands. How great is His love for us.

George Matheson said about this hymn:

My hymn was com­posed in the manse of In­ne­lan [Ar­gyle­shire, Scot­land] on the ev­en­ing of the 6th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister’s mar­ri­age, and the rest of the fam­i­ly were stay­ing over­night in Glas­gow. Some­thing hap­pened to me, which was known only to my­self, and which caused me the most se­vere men­tal suf­fer­ing. 

The hymn was the fruit of that suf­fer­ing. It was the quick­est bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the im­press­ion of hav­ing it dic­tat­ed to me by some in­ward voice ra­ther than of work­ing it out my­self. I am quite sure that the whole work was com­plet­ed in five min­utes, and equal­ly sure that it ne­ver re­ceived at my hands any re­touch­ing or cor­rect­ion. I have no na­tur­al gift of rhy­thm. All the other vers­es I have ever writ­ten are man­u­fact­ured ar­ti­cles; this came like a day­spring from on high.

George Matheson

OH LOVE THAT WILL NOT LET ME GO

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

George Matheson