Suddenly one such night he became aware that he could not pray--that in this mood he never prayed. In every other trouble he prayed--felt it the one natural thing to pray! Why not in this? Something must be wrong--terribly wrong! It was a stormy night; the snow-burdened wind was raving; and Cosmo would have been striding about the room but that now he was in his father’s, and dreaded disturbing him. He lay still, with a stone on his heart, for he was now awake to the fact that he could not say, “Thy will be done.” He tried sore to lift up his heart, but could not. Something rose ever between him and his God, and beat back his prayer. A thick fog was about him--no air wherewith to make a cry! In his heart not one prayer would come to life; it was like an old nest without bird or egg in it. It was too terrible! Here was a schism at the very root of his being. The love of things was closer to him than the love of God. Between him and God rose the rude bulk of a castle of stone! He crept out of bed, laid himself on his face on the floor, and prayed in an agony. The wind roared and howled, but the desolation in his heart made of the storm a mere play of the elements. How few of my readers will understand even the possibility of such a state! How many of them will scorn the idea of it, as that of a man on the high road to insanity! “God,” he cried, “I thought I knew thee, and sought thy will; and I have sought thy will in greater things than this wherein I now lie ashamed before thee. I cannot even pray to thee. But hear thou the deepest will in me, which, thou knowest, must bow before thine, when once thou hast uttered it. Hear the prayer I cannot offer. Be my perfect Father to fulfil the imperfection of thy child. Be God after thy own nature, beyond my feeling, beyond my prayer--according to that will in me which now, for all my trying, refuses to awake and arise from the dead. O Christ, who knowest me better a thousand times than I know myself, whose I am, divinely beyond my notions of thee and me, hear and save me eternally, out of thy eternal might whereby thou didst make me and give thyself to me. Make me strong to yield all to thee. I have no way of confessing thee before men, but in the depth of my thought I would confess thee, yielding everything but the truth, which is thyself; and therefore, even while my heart hangs back, I force my mouth to say the words--_Take from me what thou wilt, only make me clean, pure, divine._ To thee I yield the house and all that is in it. It is thine, not mine. Give it to whom thou wilt. I would have nothing but what thou choosest shall be mine. I have thee, and all things are mine.” Thus he prayed, thus he strove with a reluctant heart, forcing its will by the might of a deeper will, that _would_ be for God and freedom, in spite of the cleaving of his soul to the dust.