“For as the rain comes down, and the snow from heaven, and do not return there, but water the earth, and make it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater, So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; It shall not return to Me void, But it shall accomplish what I please, And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.    Isaiah 55 : 10 – 11

Thought for this week

I wonder how many words we have heard this week? I wonder how many words fill our lives each day, and how many are words that build us or help us grow?

Today is Bible Sunday as we give thanks for the Lord’s gift to us of the Bible. Smuggled, supressed, translated into nearly every language on earth, transmitted, spoken from space, taken to the remotest places, opened to the very young and remembered by the very old, God’s Word fills this world with the life of the Holy Spirit and the love of the Father in the person of Jesus.

As a young man I carried a Bible in my rucksack wherever I went – yet I never opened it. It was only when I began reading the Gospels that I began to realise who Jesus is. The Bible opened for me the truth about this world and the truth of who I am, loved by God.

You may read your Bible every day. You may open it sometimes. You may not have a Bible you can read. The Bible is God’s gift to us to learn of His love and grow as the people He wants us to be.

Can you share with someone today something you have read? Can you open this gift to you every day?

Poem: You held me

You offered me a broken piece of bread.

I said I wanted buttered toast instead;

I said that bread was useless, basic, poor.

You offered me the bread and nothing more.

You stooped to wash the tiredness from my feet.

I said I need a bath to be complete;

and not from You so menial a chore.

You stooped to wash my feet and nothing more.

You overthrew the tables in my heart.

I said I like them as they are, apart;

I said it politely, showing You the door.

You overturned my heart and nothing more.

You held me like an etching in a press,

You held me, held me, held me

– nothing less.

© Stephen Cottrell, 2014