To Jesus, the Author and finisher of my faith.
Like the pen, when I awake each day, you lift me up, to write another page.
You direct my steps and make them straight, as with lines on a page.
You turn me as you will, I am firmly in your hand.
Though I am pressed in your hold, I know you will not crush me.
When the day is done, you’ll lie me down to rest,
with the promise that tomorrow, you will pick me up again,
to write a new page, a new chapter, until the book of my life is complete,
when my ink is gone, and you lie me down for the last time,
and speak the words “it is finished.”
So what will the message of my story be?
Will it tell of how I tried to have my way, as if the pen can control the hand?
As if clay can control the potter?
Or, will my story be about the author?
Will he say of me in sorrow, “I have completed this story, though it was with great difficulty?”Or will he rejoice and say, “I so enjoyed this pen, and better still, he left others like him behind, for I have more stories I wish to tell?”
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