Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things...
Monday, 23 September 2013
Where Can I Flee?
O God, I long to run away, far away. But it's You I'd be running from, and there's no use. Where can I flee from Your presence? Hide me! Make a way through my Red Sea, because You are the same God that led Moses into an impossible spot, and then took responsibility for him and for your people. Remember, I am Yours - graven onto Jesus' hands.
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