When such a cry rends the heavens, "my enemies turn back." A secret and
irresistible artillery begins to play upon them, and their strength fails.
Yes, believing prayer calls these invisible allies into the field. "The
mountains are full of horses and chariots of fire round about!" And the
enemy flies!

"_This I know._" The psalmist is building upon experience. The miracle
has happened a hundred times. Many a morning has he seen the enemy
vaingloriously tramping the field, and he has cried unto the Lord, and
before nightfall there has been a perfect rout. Blessed is the man who has
had such heartening dealings with the Lord that he can now face a hostile
host in unclouded faith and assurance!

JANUARY The Thirty-first

_UNDER HIS WINGS_

"_In the shadow of Thy wings will I make my refuge._"
--PSALM lvii.

Could anything be more tenderly gracious than this figure of hiding under
the shadow of God's wings? It speaks of bosom-warmth, and bosom-shelter,
and bosom-rest. "Let me to Thy bosom fly!"

And what strong wings they are! Under those wings I am secure even from
the lions. My animal passions shall not hurt me when I am "hiding in God."
The fiercest onslaughts of the devil are powerless to break those mighty
wings. The tenderest little chick, "one of these little ones," nestling
behind this soft and gentle shelter, shall be perfectly secure; "none of
its bones shall be broken."

I do not wonder that this sheltering psalmist begins to sing! "_I will
sing and give praise!_" I have often listened to the sheltering chicks,
hiding behind the mother's wings, and I have heard that quaint,
comfortable, contented sound for which our language has no name. It is a
sound of incipient song, the musical murmur of satisfaction. "I will sing
unto Thee ... for Thy mercy is great."

FEBRUARY The First

_THE SOUL IN PRISON_

"_Bring my soul out of prison!_"
--PSALM cxlii.

I too, have my prison-house, and only the Lord can deliver me.

There is _the prison-house of sin_. It is a dark and suffocating
hole, without friendly light or morning air. And it is haunted by such
affrighting shapes, as though my iniquities had incarnated themselves in
ugly and repulsive forms. None but the Lord can bring me out.

And there is _the prison-house of sorrow_. My griefs sometimes wrap me
about like cold confining walls, which have neither windows nor doors. It
seems as though a fluid sorrow can congeal into a cold, har