Friday, 22 January 2016

The Blessed Thorn

Where would I be without this thorn in my flesh?

Resting on plastic laurels of pride and vainglory.

This thorn - it keeps me near His crown. It pricks me to my knees, where my heart learns humility, to the ground of a tear soaked garden.

Without this thorn - whither the rose? Whither the scarlet hue and scent of beauty? Whither the unfolding of life, rising from dark and secret places? Whither the bloom of rooted victory?

This thorn - it keeps me real. It keeps me wrestling. It keeps me desperate for the blessing that comes to those who persevere in His presence.

Without this thorn - where would strength break through my shell?

This thorn - through its piercing the whispers come: My grace is sufficient for thee. My power is made perfect in weakness. 

I will not despise this wound, for through it the lifeblood flows.

Without this thorn, oh whither the rose?


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