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House of Cards

In Him we live.

In Him we move.

In Him we have our being.

You woke this morning,

Opening eyes

He gave you,

To behold light

That He spoke.

You think,

"Time to get up."

With a mind

He gave you.

You think in words.


A concept

He originated

When He

Spoke matter

Into existence.

Matter that makes up

The sheet and quilt

That you now

Throw off.

And the coffee

That you now

Picture, with






Functions granted

To the living

By their Creator.

You feel

Cold air 

Flood over

Your bed-warm


Skin that He 

Draped over you

Tingles and 


You stumble

To the shower.

Glorious warmth

Rains down on you,

Chasing the cold,

Igniting quiet joy.

Joy. Emotion.

The gift of His image

Imprinted on you.

Hot showers.

A gift, hand-delivered

Through delivered

Hands, and technology,

And social infrastructure,

And all the billions

Upon billions

Of blessings 

Stacked and interlocked

That make this blessing


What in your life

Is not the grace

Of God?

Common Grace.

We all taste

And see,

All day,

Every second.

The water

In your shower

Runs cold.

You use

His gift of speech

To curse

Under your breath.

Under the breath 

He breathed 

Into you.

Someone used up

All the hot water.

They should have been

More considerate.


As in considering


"Considering others

More significant

Than yourselves."

Philippians 3:2.

His morality

From his Book

Woven into the fabric

Of your culture

And your mind.


Yes, fabric.

Whatever you are,

In your essence,

Is a strand

Woven into

An endless

Fabric of His 


You look in the mirror.

What you are seeing

Is blessing

Stacked on gift

Stacked on favor

A trillion-fold.

Yet you think that

What you see

Is you.

An independent




And yet the very act

Of seeing, and all you see

Is the work of the 

Word and breath

Of your God.

Who you may even

Disbelieve in,

Since he has granted

You the luxury

To do so.

You are a house 

Of cards stacked 

High as a skyscraper

In a windy world.

You are ten billion

Trillion points

Of failure, and yet

You stand.

At his pleasure.

You are the miracle

That defies your own


And yet you stand,

Mindless of the grace

That makes you


Your life is a vast

Fabric of grace.

And whatever

You are, underneath 

It all, is eternal, 

For he has made you so,

And infinitesimal

For you are not God.

Only His blind



And what happens,

Beloved, in the end?

What happens if you,

Rejecting the Alpha

And the Omega,

Want to take your ball

And go home?

What is you?

What is your ball?

What is home?

What is left 

When you extract

Your own bones

And blood

And brain?

When you, ready to go,

Seek to pay

Your infinite tab

With a pocketful

Of borrowed sand?

You think Hell

Is a just a hotter version

Of this Earth?

Or is it at last

The revelation

Of all that He was

For you?

What can it mean

When your Benefactor

Has granted

Your request,

And ripped Himself,

All your good,

Away from you,



Holes in your being.

Infinite wounds.

Leaving you

As small and wretched

As you are,

And as you always were,

Without Him.


Infinitely tormented

And sad and 



And gnashing

Your teeth.

On our most 

Bitter days

On Earth,

We have tasted

Nothing but mercy.

His love and 

Common grace

Are all we have 

Ever known.

I shudder to know

There is a place

For those who insist

They want nothing

To do with God,

Who is Life,

Who is Joy;

A place

Where he leaves you


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