Each woman’s son is born an heir–not to a palace or a crown, not to broad lands or mines of gold, not to ancestral lineage of fame, not to high rank among the rich and great, not to a soft seat on luxury’s lap, but to the inheritance of a common portion–TROUBLE. Few are called to be honored and caressed, to be idols of admiring crowds, to outstrip others in the worldly race, to enjoy sound health and sinewy strength, to overabundance of sublunary goods; but many are called to suffering. Our usual walk is in a valley of tears. The billows of affliction swell around us, and storms of distress, with little intermission, buffet us. Where is the eye which rarely weeps? Where is the breast which seldom sighs? Bereavements go forth to their daily work. Pains and diseases do not slumber. The lament is not uncommon, “In the morning, would God it were evening! In the evening, would God it were morning!” Deu 28:67. Wails belong not to a scanty class. We know that the white-robed multitude came out of great tribulations.
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