The trees tremble in their trunks, holding long necks aloft to gaze at the heavens, screaming to all who will listen that Christ is Lord. I am but a rib cage before You, cracking and crafted out of the earth, woven from the ground. I was intended to be art, a living poem. And I was made to know You. But I am full of blackened things and false motives.
In my weakness, be the Shout of resounding strength.
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Go with grace.