I have heard some people distinguish between happiness and joy (especially in the Christian sense) as happiness being temporary, fixed on momentary circumstances and joy being something deeper, keeping our hearts set on what is better even in hard circumstances.

But what about hope?

Is hope only true and real when it never wavers? Is hope only given to the deserving or earned by the highest achieving, or can if be present in any heart? If hope is lost or diminished, has it vanished or is it weakened forever?

This week, we step back into British history, over 200 years ago, to glimpse the pendulum-like life of poet William Cowper. In sum, he went from the brink of insanity and multiple suicide attempts early on to a revelation of new life and purpose in the Christian faith. And then, another horrid breakdown when he was even convinced God was disgusted with him and wanted to condemn him to death. Followed by amazing hymn and poetry writing periods that have left us with some most cherished verses and songs (and anti-slavery pieces that have even inspired civil rights activists generations later). And then, in the end, several years of sadness after the loss of a dear, long-time friend before Cowper’s own passing.

Some would look at Cowper’s deep doubts and (ironically) doubt that his spiritual conversion was real or that his productive bursts of hope were anything more than rantings and creative delusions.

I am not an expert on his life and inner struggles. But I will attest to the unique struggle faced by souls naturally gifted with high sensitivity and creativity. In order to observe the world and produce wonderful works of art, we must be sensitive to notice and synthesize so much going on inside us and around us at the same time. To maintain this ability, we must remain open to feeling. But we feel so deeply, it is truly a challenge to not live life swinging between extremes in thought and emotion and productive ability.

Sometimes, in the ebbs or the valleys, hope (while it has not left us completely) can certainly seem invisible or chased away.

That is when, as Cowper so famously introduced the thought into our psyche and vocabulary, “God moves in mysterious ways, His faithful wonders to perform…” And, by grace, we come to sense that hope again, the hope that was there to some degree all along.

I bless the name of the God who created each temperament and knows each temperament intimately, the name of the God who does not give up on us when we honestly and understandably struggle to hold onto hope.

I thank God that Cowper did not succeed in taking his own life. And that he discovered, with the help of John Newton, the only true source of grace he could possess to save him from God’s wrath and the only true source of hope that could help anyone withstand any storm.

Then, he wrote, “There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel’s veins, and sinners washed beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.”

In many cases, especially for those who were not of royal birth, we know very few details about individuals from ancient history. Yet, somehow, what we know about one such person has made him something of a poster child for hope in our modern world. Here are a few of the key things history records…

He lived in a culture when identity was found in sonship and genealogy, so he is only known as Jeremiah, son of Hilkiah.

After entering an exacting, demanding profession, he was called at a very young age to take on a new job that terrified him, but a job he would do faithfully for many years afterward nonetheless.

He was beaten, publically ridiculed, threatened with death, imprisoned in a dungeon, and held captive in a muddy cistern while following his calling.

And he was freed from all of that in time to see his beloved city and homeland overrun by enemies who would carry most of his people away into political exile.

Hope?

This same man would go on, out of his sorrow, to pen some of the most beloved words cherished by followers of his God. But let us not divorce those latter words from the former, a rich contrast from which the latter spring.

He pierced my heart with arrows from his quiver. I became the laughing stock of all my people; they mock me in song all day long. He has filled me with bitter herbs and sated me with gall. He has broken my teeth with gravel; he has trampled me in the dust. I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten what prosperity is. So I say, “My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the Lord.” I remember my affliction and my wondering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him to the one who seeks him. It is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. (Lamentations 3:13-26, NIV).

In a triad of the most foundational virtues, love is what we long to give and need to live, and faith sees invisible promises as tangible cords to grasp. But hope?

Hope is the metaphorical sparrow flittering around us in Dickinson’s short, classic poem and the magnificently fragile moth meeting Gandalf in his moment of utmost dispair in Tolkien’s sweeping, epic masterpiece. It is a pillar of stone that grows in strength through each trial, holding up every burden that would otherwise crush the life out of us.

It is in the sun rising again every day as a blessing from the Maker who whispers, “Here it is: My gift for a fresh new start and your chance to trust My mercy again.” It is in the acceptance of that gift, the reflection of that Maker’s light.

We can look back on Jeremiah’s life and see all the events of his life after they happened. But in the moment, in each of those days, he certainly couldn’t understand all that was to come, for though he was a prophet, he was a completely human one.

He was honest about his struggles and feelings, but he still held onto the new dawn waiting over each horizon.

May we do the same.