The little babies are missing their families from their past lives. The babies have old souls and the old souls have to shrink to become little babies. The tears loosen their memories so they can slide away. They cry at the life they have lost, and then they cry at everything they'll forget.
So that godly sorrow may be discerned by this train of graces wherewith it is accompanied, that worldly sorrow wants, at least in the truth of them, though it may have some shadows of them.
It's not the wickedness of the pagan that breaks my heart. It's the compromise of the Christian that grieves my soul.
This day, my God, I hate sin not because it damns me, but because it has done Thee wrong. To have grieved my God is the worst grief to me.
A heartless Christian must be a terrible grief to our Lord.
Heaven and God are best discerned through tears; scarcely perhaps are discerned at all without them. The constant association of prayer with the hour of bereavement and the scenes of death suffice to show this.
Do you think they missed him terribly when he fell? Did God cry over his lost angel, I wonder?
The widow cries out at the door, The light of my mind has gone out, O my mother, with his death. So cry out, O soul brides of the Husband Lord, and dwell on the Glorious Praises of the True Lord.
