You are weary of it now, the same songs, the same hollow words, the same godless noise pouring over you like a grey tide every day, with no escape. I do not wonder that your spirit feels raw and bruised. A drop of water falling in the same place will wear a stone away, and a constant grating sound can make a strong heart ache with an almost desperate longing for quiet. You did not ask for this; it comes without your leave, a threadbare cloak thrown over your shoulders by one who seems not to see how it chafes you. And you are right to name it before your Lord, for even the small irritations that rub us day after day can cloud our inward sky far more than a single great storm.
Yet I want you to turn your thoughts for a moment to a far grander patience. Do you remember how your Master spent His days among men? He walked through streets clamorous with blasphemy; He sat at tables where coarse talk rose with the steam of the food; He heard the sneering of those who called good evil and evil good. The holy Dove was never out of earshot of the world's ugly croaking. And what did He do? He did not call fire from heaven upon the noise. He bore it, and He loved on, and He went to the cross with those same sounds ringing in His ears, and there He prayed, "Father, forgive them." This is the Lord before whom you kneel. He understands the grating weariness of what you suffer, because He suffered it on a far wider scale, with a far purer ear, and with a heart that never once sinned in its irritation.
And here is your quiet comfort: the very thing that wearies you may become a little bell to call you to look at Jesus. Every time that music starts again and your soul recoils, let it be a signal, a homely, unwanted signal, like a cock-crow to Peter, that turns your eyes at once to your Saviour. Whisper to Him in the thick of it, "Lord, Thou art my hiding-place; wrap me in Thy quietness." The outward noise cannot touch the inward chamber where He dwells. You may have no power to silence the songs, but you have every right to lift your own heart's melody above them. Let Christ's name be the counter-song that rises in your soul; a silent hymn of His forgiveness, His patience, His unwearying love. That is music the angels know.
As for the one who makes you listen? Well, my dear soul, our own forgiveness was not won by our asking prettily or by our deserving it. We came to Christ with a din of sin about us that was far fouler than any tune. And He forgave us freely, hugely, joyously, loading us with mercy. And now He puts His hand on our shoulder and says, gently as only He can, "Even as I forgave you, so also do ye." I know, I know, it is a daily cross, and the flesh winces under it. But perhaps this very trial is the anvil on which the Lord is shaping a Christlike gentleness in you that no softer life could ever yield. And you are not left alone to forge it; the same Spirit who gave Jesus patience will give it to you, drop by drop, as the need returns.
So keep your face set toward your Lord. He is not far from you when the noise is loudest. He has His hand beneath your head. And the day will break when every earthly sound shall pass away, and your ears shall open to the new song that has no jarring note. Until then, let His forgiveness be your sanctuary.
I would breathe a prayer with you now, just as we sit together before the mercy-seat.
Lord Jesus, Thou who didst endure the contradiction of sinners against Thyself, look upon this beloved one who is worn with the daily intrusion of what dishonours Thee. Be their deep unbroken calm in the midst of outward grating sound. Forgive, O forgive again, all the inward vexations and sharp thoughts that the trial may have stirred, and fill the heart with that great love that covereth a multitude of little grievances. And for the one who brings the noise, work what we cannot, turn their ears to Thee, and if it please Thee, give them a new song. But for this dear soul, give daily patience, gentle quietness, and the secret music of Thy presence, until the day breaks and the shadows flee away. Amen.