Sweet Primrose

I see the green leaves of a plant most dear to all who love the woods in spring. It is now nestling under a hedge upon a shelving bank, just above a trickling stream.

I ask why it does not bloom, and it whispers to me that it will bloom by-and-by.

But, sweet primrose, why not put forth thy lovely flower at once, and gladden us with thy beauty?

She answers, ‘I am waiting for him.’

For whom dost thou tarry, thou herald of spring?

She meekly answers, ‘I am waiting for my lord, the sun.’

Dost thou not need other friends and helpers?

‘Nay,’ saith she, ‘the coming of my lord will be enough, and when he putteth forth his strength I shall put on my beauty.’

But wilt thou not need soft, pearly drops of dew to glisten on thy leaves? Are not thy blossoms most fair to gaze upon when all around you keep time and tune therewith, when the violet and harebell are in thy company, when the buds are swelling and the green-winged linnet sings?

To which she replies, ‘He will bring them, he will bring them all.’

But art thou not afraid of the killing frosts, and the dreary snowstorms?

‘He will chase them all away,’ says the little plant: ‘I shall be safe enough when he brings on the spring.’

Believer, you are that plant and Jesus is your sun. He will bring you healing beneath His wings, and joy in the light of His countenance.

— ‘My Restorer’ - Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit Vol. 19 p.723-730 (C.H. Spurgeon)