Love That Will Not Let Me Gogh

Theories on the butchering of van Gogh's ear seem to abound, but the latest involves his despair over his brother Theo's impending marriage and (as anticipated by Vincent) subsequent distancing, emotionally and financially, from Vincent. Regardless of the truth of this theory--it seems to stretch the evidence a little in my highly experienced art historian-detective opinion--it reminded me of the story of one of my favorite hymns. I can't verify this either, but here it is anyway.
The hymn-writer himself, George Matheson, purportedly wrote,

"My hymn was composed in the manse of Innelan [Argyleshire, Scotland] on the evening of the 6th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister's marriage, and the rest of the family were staying overnight in Glasgow. Something happened to me, which was known only to myself, and which caused me the most severe mental suffering. The hymn was the fruit of that suffering. It was the quickest bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the impression of having it dictated to me by some inward voice rather than working it out myself. I am quite sure that the whole work was completed in five minutes, and equally sure that it never received at my hands any retouching or correction. I have no natural gift of rhythm. All the other verses I have ever written are manufactured articles; this came like a dayspring from on high."

The first and only place I've ever heard it is on an Indelible Grace CD (the first, I think, sung by Sandra McCracken). It's catchy, hopeful, and has a feeling of driving-ever-onward. Unfortunately it's not as singable as, "Arise, My Soul, Arise" or "A Debtor to Mercy Alone" off that same album. Sidenote. On their RUF Hymnbook I (waded through the inexplicably horrendous grammar to) read the "History of the Hymn" and learned that he, too, went through the senseless tragedy of losing a sibling to marriage... no, really, it was a big deal. The legend is that years earlier he'd been dumped by a fiance who learned that he was going blind, and his sister had ever since been a great friend and caretaker to him, as he'd gone completely blind. (It is one thing to be born with a disability, and an entirely different thing for it begin to afflict you well into your adult life. With the former, you can be used to it, but with the latter the transition is so hard.) But now his sister was being united in a radical way with another man, to be responsible for her own family. He was back on his own. But through his sadness God actually brought him joy.

Verses 3 & 4: (but go read the others also!)

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
and feel the promise is not vain
that morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life's glory dead,
and from the ground there blossoms red
life that shall endless be.

What different responses these two men had to similar circumstances of ferocious loneliness! Van Gogh's characterized by despair and mutilation, Matheson's by hope--"...and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us." Romans 5:5
I like how Matheson mentions the temptation to close the heart to God's gift of joy--to essentially choose bitterness. But if I'm sensitive to God's will I will obediently receive his gift of comfort, not wallow in self-pity. It's strange to think that I would choose the negative option, but that's sin. I can flee from the cross, or I can linger and gain endless life.