There comes a season in every soul when the Goodness of Creation turns sour. “God,” says the writer of Lamentations, “is a bear lying in wait for me, a lion in hiding,” preparing to devour.
The day arrives when flesh wastes away and bones are broken; when I am besieged and beset; when I am walled about and chained.
Who but the Sovereign could bring such affliction, when my teeth grind on gravel, when my lips are pressed into the dust, when I am made to cower in ashes?
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