Providence in the Fog.

The year was 1772. One of those almost impenetrable fogs had settled down over the city of London. In a dismal flat in the heart of the crowded East End, a man stood gazing into the fireplace. Then suddenly, overcome with emotions of discouragement, gripped by fears that he could not name, he threw his cloak about him and walked resolutely toward the door. He turned the key and walked out into the night.

Carefully he groped his way across the pavement and felt for the iron horse’s head and the ring of the hitching post. Then guided by the curbstone, he made his way to the nearest corner, where he knew a horse-drawn cab was always waiting. He opened the door and ordered the driver, “To the Thames, sir!” for in his deep depression there seemed no way out but to jump from the bridge.

It should have taken fifteen minutes. But after an hour and a half of negotiating the dark and foggy streets, they realized they were hopelessly lost. In desperation, he decided to walk and paid the driver his fare. But as he climbed out of the cab, his arm struck a familiar object. It was the iron horse’s head of the hitching post that was to him so familiar. After an hour and a half of fitful wandering, he had been dropped in front of his own home.

So impressed was he that he climbed the stairs to his flat, lite a lamp and knelt to ask God to forgive him for what he had thought to do. And then, there in the same room that had so lately overcome him with its gloom, he wrote the immortal words that have been sung for centuries since:

“God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform;

He plants His footsteps in the sea and rides upon the storm.

His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding evry hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace;

Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

Blind unbelief is sure to err and scan his works in vein;

God is His own interpreter, and He will make it pain.”

Yes, it was William Cowper, who learned that night something who learned something of the wonder of God’s providence that night. Now I realize I am getting old and many of you have probably never heard the old hymn so here is a link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znmZswr2J2w

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51Bx1UwLc0U

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5-DQmhKPY4