"The snow has turned to freezing rain now, and the trees bend with the weight of the ice which forms on their branches. Every twig is glazed; every frond of evergreen is cut crystal. I hope my pink dogwood and my two poor little peach trees, so wounded by last year's storms, will not be done in by this one. A small hope and a trivial fear by comparison with my hopes and fears for this beloved country of ours, but I bring both kinds to Him who alone can do something about weather and human nature. Psalm 147 is a song of praise:
He showers down snow, white as wool, and sprinkles hoar-frost thick as ashes;
crystals of ice he scatters like breadcrumbs;
He utters His word, and the ice is melted.
O praise the Lord.
Ice, hoarfrost, snow. The earth, its realms, its cities. The wounds and broken spirits of His people. All of these subject to His command, affected by the word. He who heals and binds up, who brings peace and sends His command, who scatters crystals of ice like breadcrumbs and then speaks to melt them- He is still in charge.
(photo credit: Sunday morning sunrise, from my bedroom window)
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