Bought by the blood, kept by the power, art an adoration and
yet- I worship self and I make a terrible god.
Why is it so hard to be obedient, remain in the state in which
called? Wise in my own eyes, I fall, and
then by precious grace, the fight is won; adorned again in words not my own, pruned
to bloom, I count it joy to lose that I may serve the work.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
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