"When Sorrow sang, her notes were like the low, sweet call of the nightingale, and in her eyes was the unexpectant gaze of one who has ceased looking for coming gladness. When Joy sang, his voice soared upward as the lark's, and his step was the step of a conqueror who has never known defeat. But we can never be united, said Sorrow wistfully. Even as she spoke, they became conscious of a form standing behind them; dimly seen, but of a Kingly Presence. I see him as the King of Joy, whispered Sorrow. Before him, all my sorrow is melting away into deathless love and gladness. Said Joy softly, But I see him as the King of Sorrow. The crown on his head is a crown of thorns, and the nailprints are the scars of a great agony. Then we are one in him, they cried in gladness, for none but he could unite Joy and Sorrow. Hand in hand, they passed out into the world to follow him through storm and sunshine, in the bleakness of winter cold and the warmth of summer gladness ... as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing."
-- Mrs. Charles E. Cowman
-- Mrs. Charles E. Cowman
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