How often I corrode the Sure Foundation,
how often I erode the Mighty Rock till it crumbles,
how often I blow out the lasting flame of the one who always has been and always will be.
Except I don't.
Except all these things are impossible.
Yet with each footstep into valleys of doubt,
each tiny sampling of fear I dip my finger in and taste it's convincing bitterness,
with each anxiety I pump up like a blimp-sized balloon swelling far bigger than it actually is,
with all these things it sure seems like my God becomes small;
the impossible belittling of the Mighty One seems so real.
It seems so genuine when I slip,
when eyes gaze at calorie numbers and carbs turn into pointed spears and all of a sudden the body is not as beautiful as it once was,
and I know it's all lies but I listen anyways,
and then suddenly grace is not the most dear treasure cradled in the heart.
Yes, that's just it.
When grace is not the greatest treasure,
when grace is not the gem I examine with each step, knowing it's stunning intricacy,
when I do not recklessly guard this gift,
when I make it cheap, giving it away for some other worthless imitation, a glass shard when the invaluable diamond of grace that I never deserved is offered, is given to be mine
it makes the grubby lies seem bigger than the Most Powerful God.
Clinging to this jewel of grace, holding this fortune of Christ that I have to it's highest value and not settling for any convincing liars and false promisers and seductive imitators, not giving up the greatest possession I never deserved, I will treasure grace, gripping it with all my life:
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