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Does God's Grace Blot Out the Law?

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That only must my message be If I shall bless humanity. I am not left to seek, forsooth, In learning's page to find the Truth, But here it is beneath my hand The Word which shall forever stand. Unalterable, enduring, sure Flows the Divine Fount fresh and pure. Knocking, knocking, who is there? Waiting, waiting, O how fair! Knocking, knocking—what! They were looking for a king To slay their foes and lift them high; Thou cam'st, a little baby thing That made a woman cry. It seems but such a little while Since he was playing at my knee, And when I spoke to him, my eyes Would downward turn his face to see.

And now, in just a few short years, O God, how short the years can be! My eyes must upward turn, for then He will be looking down on me. No time for God is soon to say no time to eat or sleep, or love or die. Take time for God, or you shall dwarf your soul. No time for God? That day when sickness comes or trouble finds you out, And you cry out to God, will He have time for you? And when you meet Him face to face, Will He—should He—have time for you?

Your sins have separated Between you and your God. No man, build he Babels ever so high, Can reach thither.


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Christ has come, and in Him The heavens have bended down to touch And, touching, to bless this low earth, And man and God are at one once more. Law demands—grace gives. There is a time, I know not when, A place, I know not where, Which marks the destiny of men To heaven or despair.

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To cross that limit is to die, To die, as if by stealth. It may not pale the beaming eye, Nor quench the glowing health.

STILL STANDING WITH edusdamelvie.ml HIS GRACE AND MERCY FOR US ALL.

The conscience may be still at ease, The spirits light and gay; That which is pleasing still may please, And care be thrust away. But on that forehead God hath set Indelibly a mark, By man unseen, for man as yet Is blind and in the dark. And still the doomed man's path below May bloom like Eden bloomed. He did not, does not, will not know, Nor feel that he is doomed.

By God’s Power, I’m Still Standing | Chronic Illness Pain Daily Devotionals

He feels, he sees that all is well, His every fear is calmed. He lives, he dies, he wakes in hell, Not only doomed, but damned. Oh, where is that mysterious bourn, By which each path is crossed, Beyond which God himself hath sworn That he who goes is lost? How long may men go on in sin?

How long will God forbear? Where does hope end, and where begin The confines of despair?


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And I made a prayer right then and there, Best prayer I ever said— The prayerest prayer I ever prayed Was standing on my head. When Jesus came to Golgotha they hanged him on a tree, they drove great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary; they crowned him with a crown of thorns, red were his wounds and deep, for those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap.

When Jesus came to live with us we simply passed him by, we never hurt a hair of him, we only let him die; for we had grown more tender, and we would not give him pain, we only just passed down the street and left him in the rain. Still Jesus cries, "Forgive them for they know not what they do," and still it rains the winter rain that drenches through and through; the crowds go home and leave the streets without a soul to see, and Jesus crouches 'gainst a wall and cries for Calvary.

From the spectral mist and the driving clouds, From the shifting shadows and phantom crowds From unreal words and unreal lives, Where truth with falsehood feebly strives: From the passings away, the chance and change, Flickerings, vanishings, swift and strange, I turn to my glorious rest in Thee, Who art the grand Reality. Nothing, either great or small— Nothing, sinner, no; Jesus died and paid it all, Long, long ago.

Weary, working, burdened one, Wherefore toil you so? Cease your doing; all was done Long, long ago.

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Better news the gospel brings, It bids me fly and gives me wings. With kindly grace an angel ushered me inside. Some I judged and labeled as unfit— Or of little worth. Indignant words rose to my lips, But never were set free.

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For every face showed some surprise No one expected me! Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears— Toil without recompense, tears all in vain— Take them and give me my childhood again!? That weapon of her weakness, she can wield, To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield. We, as a church, have failed to communicate effectively the Christian message to the present generation, and this generation needs it so desperately. I say this because I have found that the educated man today is the anxious man. He has a sickening realization of his own insecurities, inadequacies, defenses, and aggressions.

He has soberly discovered that all men are not inherently good, just, and honest, nor does right always prevail. The Son of God in tears, The wondering angels see. Be thou astonished, O my soul, He shed those tears for thee. Not far from New York, in a cemetery lone, Close guarding its grave, stands a simple headstone, And all the inscription is one word alone— Forgiven. And when from the heavens the Lord shall descend, This stranger shall rise and a glorious end, Well-known and befriended to sing without end— Forgiven.

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