Sunday, September 12, 2010

For When I am Weak, Then am I Strong

It is in our strength that Satan finds our weakness. It is in our weakness that Christ finds our strength.

It is when I am lifted up in myself like Peter on the water; when I think I am strong enough to do it on my own. It is then Satan finds my weakness, and it is then I fail and I fall. But when I realize my weakness; when I realize I am not strong in and of myself and that I am but nothing. When I realize my need, it is then in my weakness that Christ finds my strength. It is then when Christ becomes my strength that I am made strong! “And he [Christ] said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2Co 12:9) “for when I am weak, then am I strong.” (2Co 12:10)

What a glorious thought!

Friday, September 3, 2010

The Touch of the Master’s Hand

T’was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who’ll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar," then, two! Only two?
"Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?
"Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three . . . "But no,
From the room, far back, a grey haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice;
And going and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply:
"The touch of a master’s hand."

And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A 'mess of potage,' a glass of wine;
A game, and he travels on.
He is 'going' once, and 'going' twice,
He’s 'going' and almost 'gone'.
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.

~ Myra Brooks Welch
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