Dear
Your letter reduces my restlessness. Could it be that this voice which haunts me here has evil designs? If I am so relieved to meet words like yours, at least that tells me it only summoned me to an irresolute end.
For sometime I felt stalked by it as the cell gradually shrank my imagination. A hunter took aim and fired; the bullet burst through my spleen. The toxins at first released, but with the worst, followed my entrails and they escaped to the open. I had been whiling about beginning to become concerned about my gutlessness; although my courage dragged after me, still my temperature fled before my chasing heart. This was the state your letter found me in—like a deer betrayed by an err bullet. I had missed the fatal aim set upon me by the grace of God.
I kept running
in faith.
Now you bring me the long-awaited rest. If brief, the solace you afford me has restored me to innocence. Your prayers repair my injury and by faith make me a sign of supernatural saving grace, and even my secular setting has its sacramental dimension: In thanksgiving. You preserve me, oh prayer warrior, with shelter in Him,
No comments:
Post a Comment