The World Turns Again

A correspondent sends me this photo of the solstice sun rising this morning over the Frome water-meadows between Dorchester and Stinsford. Or, if you are a true believer in the power of Wessex, between Casterbridge and Mellstock.

Sun rise over the Frome

Still comes up, every day. In a hundred years, it will rise again. And all the noise of the nations today will be just an echo - a raging of the nations. Trump's tantrums will be a nursery rhyme. The Brexit vote will be lumped together into that historical period "when everybody did stupid stuff". And though each individual life is so precious and so short, and each moment so fleeting, the sun will rise once again and the message will be the same - the laws of this universe are obeyed, momentum is conserved, the world is good and the logic that holds it together is reliable.

 One day, in the Great Reckoning, it's said the sun will be as ash and the moon - so bright when it peeps out from the clouds this evening - to blood. But still, today it rose again.

And we wait till that final day, till the One who puts all things in their places throws the mighty from their seats and raises up the lowly. And while we wait we will lift up our heads and see the sun rise and know that the One who put the earth in its place is true and dependable, and will do these things.

So the sun will rise, each day, till the Sun of Righteousness arises with healing in his wings. Then we will drink from the water of the river of life in the City that needs no sun.

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