It was a dark time indeed, so much so that with the children of Israel it would have been for him better to have withered in a foreign land under the weight of a hard tyranny and oppression. Life was departing. Death seemed more sweet than life. Being seemed frightening, non-being promised freedom.
Now look back.
How was it that all was not ended? That, like a ship on the horizon, he did not disappear into a vast eternal space?
It was grace. The immense and grand grace flowing from Him who is not seen but heard because He is not far off.
But, what of today?
Still a season of drought, though on the horizon is a cloud and with that a promise. A dry river bed softens at the sound of the coming water and a new vigor. Rain turns to a river of life carving its way freely in a careless and tired land.
There is a light, a faint, but enduring light. He can only surmise the healing light belongs to the Spirit of grace who will not leave his own without the burning embers of grace's fires.
Now look back.
How was it that all was not ended? That, like a ship on the horizon, he did not disappear into a vast eternal space?
It was grace. The immense and grand grace flowing from Him who is not seen but heard because He is not far off.
But, what of today?
Still a season of drought, though on the horizon is a cloud and with that a promise. A dry river bed softens at the sound of the coming water and a new vigor. Rain turns to a river of life carving its way freely in a careless and tired land.
There is a light, a faint, but enduring light. He can only surmise the healing light belongs to the Spirit of grace who will not leave his own without the burning embers of grace's fires.