Psalms 147:8

Who covereth the heaven with clouds.

The sky

It is a strange thing how little in general people know about the sky. There is not a moment of any day of our lives when Nature is not producing scene after scene, picture after picture, glory after glory, and working still upon such exquisite and constant principles of the most perfect beauty that it is quite certain that, it is all done for us, and intended for our perpetual pleasure. And every man, wherever placed, however far from other sources of interest, or of beauty, has this doing for him constantly. The noblest scenes of the earth can be seen and known but by few; it is not intended that men should live always in the midst of them; he injures them by his presence; he ceases to feel them if he be always with them. But the sky is for all; bright as it is, it is not, too bright nor good for human nature’s daily food; it is fitted in all its functions for the perpetual comfort and exalting of the heart; for soothing it and purifying it from its dross and dust. Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful; never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost Divine in its infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential. And yet we never attend to it, we never make it a subject of thought, but as it has to do with our animal sensations; we look upon it all by which it speaks to us more clearly than to brutes, upon all which bears witness to the intention of the Supreme, that we are to receive more from the covering vault than the light and the dew which we share with the weed and the worm, only as a succession of meaningless and monotonous accidents, too common and too vain to be worthy of a moment of watchfulness, or a glance of admiration. If, in our moments of utter idleness and insipidity, we turn to the sky as a last resource, which of its phenomena do we speak of? One says it has been wet, and another it has been windy, and another it has been warm. Who among the whole chattering crowd can tell me of the forms and precipices of the chain of tall white mountains that gilded the horizon at noon yesterday? Who saw the narrow sunbeam that came out of the south, and smote upon their summits until they melted and mouldered away in a dust of blue rain? Who saw the dance of the dead clouds when the sunlight left them last night, and the west wind blew them before it like withered leaves? All has passed unregretted or unseen; or, if the apathy be ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is only by what is gross or what is extraordinary; and yet it is not in the broad and fierce manifestations of the elemental energies, not in the clash of the hail, nor the drift of the whirlwind that the highest characters of the sublime are developed. God is not in the earthquake nor in the fire, hut in the still small voice. They are but the blunt and the low faculties of our nature, which can only be addressed through lamp-black and lightning. It is in quiet and subdued passages of unobtrusive majesty; the deep and the calm and the perpetual; that which must be sought ere it is seen, and loved ere it is understood; things which the angels work out for us daily, and yet vary eternally; which are never wanting and never repeated; which are to be found always, yet each found but once. It is through these that the lesson of devotion is chiefly taught, and the blessing of beauty given. (John Ruskin.)

Who maketh grass to grow.--

The grass

Every spring there is repeated before our eyes a phenomenon which in the beginning was a miracle. Let us, in imagination, view the scene where, on the first sand beach that was heaved up from the water-covered globe, the grass came forth to prepare the way for the subsequent spread of life. To one whose world showed nothing but sand and water, what a miracle the first appearance of sprouting grass! Here is something wonderfully new, moving of itself amid motionless particles, and by some hidden power of its own thrusting them aside and mysteriously increasing in body and bulk, while they remain as they were. Such a thing of life entering such a world without life is plainly supernatural be that world. Mark here that all the subsequent stages of advancing life have likewise been successively supernatural, each to its predecessor. As the grass is supernatural to the sand, so is the ox to the grass, so is the man to the ox, so also is the spiritual Christ to the natural man. Here is a lesson in the grass for those who fancy that science has eliminated the supernatural, and put miracles out of the audience-room of reason. There was, once at least, an indisputable miracle. It was when life first broke the dead uniformity of an inanimate world. Life is the thing most unaccountable in origin, but most manifest in fact, most common in form, most mysterious in power, the thing most natural, but also most supernatural, being the producer of nature, not its product. Life, says the scientist, can come only from life. The world which has it not can have it only from beyond the world. Thus the living grass was the primeval witness to the living God. “Through every star, through every grass-blade,” said Carlyle, “the glory of a present God still beams.” And so this ancient psalm of praise to the Author of the humblest of living things reads to us its primitive lessen of God as the all-originating Life of all that lives, whom to know is life eternal, whom to forsake is death indeed. Let us, then, further contemplate that primeval sea-beach, where life has begun its everlasting process. We there see the grass first by its strong roots fortifying the shore, as one may observe to-day where the beach-grass aids to build the dunes; then by its annual decay forming a soil in which nobler forms of life may root. “Time and I,” said a statesman, “are enough.” So might the feeble but persevering power of the grass say. As the land slowly rose above the sea, the grass went on with its spreading preparations for the further advance of life, making the soft for edible grains and fruits to grow from, till at length the animal tribes came forth and found their sustenance secure. Thus is the grass a parable of the way of God, which we have ever to imitate. Every good thing we bring to pass has first to wait for the period of grass to do its work, slowly preparing the conditions of a permanent advance. Wearisome sometimes is this humble method of patience, the creeping which precedes running, gaining each day an atom of goodwill, a grain of influence, a trifle of experience and education. To our impatience at such slow gain the grass reads its lesson, “Despise not the clay of small things.” The small thing is the beginning of the large thing. The grains and fruits will grow when the grass has made the soil for them. In the grass is the first glimpse of the coming cedars. The great reform which frees a race of slaves must wait till the beginnings of humane sentiment have risen in a humble band of protestants against legalized iniquity, the agitators whom society trod under foot like the grass, but who kept on growing and making soil for the edict of emancipation. Such is the quiet work that no record is made of till its results appear in the better life of succeeding times. The Christian family is doing it; the school, the Church is doing it; the germinating power of ideas is doing it in little circles of reformers everywhere, ridiculed, perhaps, because at present so powerless, but educating the fundamental sentiment from which better and stronger institutions are to spring. (J. M. Whiten, Ph. D.)

Grass

Consider what we owe merely to the meadow grass, to the covering of the dark ground by that glorious enamel, by the companies of those soft and countless and peaceful spears! The field! Follow but just for a little time the thoughts of all that we ought to recognize in those words. All spring and summer is in them, the walks by the silent, scented paths, the rests in noonday heat, the joy of herds and flocks, the power of all shepherd life and meditation, the sunlight upon the world, falling in emerald streaks and falling in soft blue shadows where else it would have struck upon the dark mould or scorching dust, pastures beside the pacing brooks, soft banks and knolls of lowly hills, thymy slopes of down overlooked by the blue line of lifted sea, crisp lawns all dim with early dew, or smooth in evening warmth of varied sunshine, dinted by happy feet, and softening in their fall the sound of loving voices, all these are summed up in those simple words--the fields--and these are not all. We may not measure to the full the depth of this heavenly gift in our own land; though still as we think of it longer, the infinite of that meadow sweetness--Shakespeare’s peculiar joy--would open on us more and more, yet we have it but in part. Go out in the spring-time among the meadows that slope from the shores of the Swiss lakes to the roots of their lower mountains, there, mingled with their taller gentians and the white narcissus, the grass grows deep and free; and as you follow the winding mountain paths beneath arching boughs all veiled and dim with blossom--paths that for ever droop and rise over the green banks and mounds, sweeping clown in scented undulation steep to the blue water, studded here and there with new-mown heaps, filling all the air with fainter sweetness; look up towards the higher hills, where the waves of everlasting green roll silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the pines, and we may, perhaps, at last know the meaning of those quiet words, “He maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains.” (John Ruskin.)