We must believe against appearances.
"Under the fount of ill Many a cup doth fill, And the patient lip, though it drinketh oft, Finds only the bitter still.
"Nevertheless, I know, Out of the dark must grow, Sooner or later, whatever is fair, Since the heavens have willed it so." Back and forth the plough was driven.

The field was covered with grasses and lovely flowers, but remorselessly through them all the share tore its way, cutting furrow after furrow.

It seemed that all the beauty was being hopelessly destroyed.

But by and by harvest-time came, and the field waved with golden wheat.

That was what the ploughman's faith saw from the beginning.
Sorrow seems to destroy the life of a child of God.