You have prayed a plain prayer, and the Lord has heard it: you long for a certain song, its melody, its words, even its title, to be lifted clean out of your memory, so that it will trouble you no more. And yet it returns, like an unwelcome guest who will not leave the door. I know something of that weariness. The mind can be tyrannized by a trifle, and a scrap of music can become a heavy chain.
But let me ask you a gentle question: does not the very fact that this thing grieves you, that you cannot bear to have it lodged within you, prove that you are alive to God? A dead soul does not care what lodges in its chambers. A stone does not mind what noise clamors over it. But you, you are sensitive, you are tender, you want your inward parts clean for Christ. That sorrow itself is a sign of spiritual breath within you. Do not read it as abandonment; read it as the stirring of one who has been quickened by the Holy Ghost.
Now, as to this stubborn song. I do not say that the Lord will instantly blot it out with one stroke, as though it had never been. But I do say that the Lord Jesus can make it as nothing to you. He can break its power to disturb your peace. Have you ever noticed how a thick, black cloud can look so solid, so immovable, so sure to drown the sun, and then, in a moment, the wind rises, the cloud is torn, and the blue serene breaks through? The cloud is not annihilated; it is scattered, it is gone from your sky. So can the Lord deal with this intrusive ditty. He can send the breath of His Spirit, and the thing that looms so large will thin, will fray, will vanish. It may float at the edge of your mind for a season, but it will have no more weight than a wisp of smoke. It will lose its sting.
And while you wait for that complete relief, let me set before you a better occupation. Our Lord Jesus sits at His table, the table of your heart, spread with faith and love, and when He sits there, everything else in the house takes its proper place. The King’s presence makes a fragrance rise. Your prayer, your longing, your little acts of trust: these are spikenard, and they give off a perfume that drowns the foul odors. The song may mutter in some far corner, but when the King fills the room, you scarcely notice it. Fix your eyes on Him, not on the intruding sound. The more you fight a thought in your own strength, the more it digs in its heels. But turn to Jesus, and the thing will loosen its grip.
Remember, too, that our Lord knows what forgetful creatures we are. He gave us a feast of remembrance because we are so apt to let His love slip from our minds. Yet here is a strange mercy: the same memory that now holds an unwelcome tune can be filled with better things. You are not at the mercy of every jingle that passes through the street of your mind. The Holy Spirit can teach you to dwell on Christ, to hum His promises, to have the music of His name running beneath all your thoughts. That is the cure: not empty silence, but a sweeter song.
So draw near to Him again. Do not say, “Lord, drive this from me,” as though He must use a whip. Say rather, “Lord, draw me; and as You draw me, I will run after You.” He is gentle. He does not break the bruised reed. Let His love be the new song in your mouth, and the old one will grow faint and foreign.
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Lord Jesus, take this dear soul’s mind and make it a room where You are always welcome. Let every unwanted echo be quenched by the sound of Your voice. Give quietness, give peace, give a heart that rests in You. And as Your child sleeps and wakes, let the thought of Your love be the melody that never ends. Amen.