Ecclesiastes 3:10-11 (NIV)
Our world is an ancient and mysterious place. Deep within its crust rumble terrible earthquakes, shifting the very bedrock beneath us, wreaking chaos and horrors. And in the shallow soil sprout buttercups and daisies, the very emblems of purity and innocence, visited by the droning, busy honey-bees and the brilliant, feather-light flash of fragile butterflies. Above the face of the vast, all-drowning sea rear the awful wind-borne fortresses of the thunderclouds, the gale, the whirlwind, dashing to pieces ship and sailor, tree and home. And in its glistening depths tower vivid corals and reef-fish in the shadow of the drifting, mighty, gentle, singing whales.
Evils overwhelm; beauty flourishes. And always God brings good out of the blackest darkness; out of death, life. And His is the story, His are the Words from beginning to end. His is the rescue, His the redemption, the gift of grace to self-fragmented men.
Ours is the waste land thirsting for water. We, called to be sons, refused, became vagrants; ours is the shame and the sin.
And He made it His own.
"Who hath wrought and done it, calling the generations from the beginning? I the LORD, the first, and with the last, I am he."
Isaiah 41:4 (KJV)
There is an end to all philosophy. There is a place from which the understanding cannot raise itself, though it may catch glimpses of a place far away, further up and further in.
"Fear not, thou worm Jacob, and ye men of Israel; I will help thee, saith the LORD, and thy redeemer, the Holy One of Israel."
Isaiah 41:14 (KJV)
Ashes to ashes.
"Have ye not known?"
Dust to dust.
"He giveth power to the faint..."
Lord, have mercy.
"It is he..."
Keep silence.
Our world is an ancient and mysterious place. Deep within its crust rumble terrible earthquakes, shifting the very bedrock beneath us, wreaking chaos and horrors. And in the shallow soil sprout buttercups and daisies, the very emblems of purity and innocence, visited by the droning, busy honey-bees and the brilliant, feather-light flash of fragile butterflies. Above the face of the vast, all-drowning sea rear the awful wind-borne fortresses of the thunderclouds, the gale, the whirlwind, dashing to pieces ship and sailor, tree and home. And in its glistening depths tower vivid corals and reef-fish in the shadow of the drifting, mighty, gentle, singing whales.
Evils overwhelm; beauty flourishes. And always God brings good out of the blackest darkness; out of death, life. And His is the story, His are the Words from beginning to end. His is the rescue, His the redemption, the gift of grace to self-fragmented men.
Ours is the waste land thirsting for water. We, called to be sons, refused, became vagrants; ours is the shame and the sin.
And He made it His own.
"Who hath wrought and done it, calling the generations from the beginning? I the LORD, the first, and with the last, I am he."
Isaiah 41:4 (KJV)
There is an end to all philosophy. There is a place from which the understanding cannot raise itself, though it may catch glimpses of a place far away, further up and further in.
"Fear not, thou worm Jacob, and ye men of Israel; I will help thee, saith the LORD, and thy redeemer, the Holy One of Israel."
Isaiah 41:14 (KJV)
Ashes to ashes.
"Have ye not known?"
Dust to dust.
"He giveth power to the faint..."
Lord, have mercy.
"It is he..."
Keep silence.
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