Grace.

As the clearing up, and clearing out, continues before we make the final move to France, I am coming upon all sorts of things that had been forgotten about.  The following is a poem that I recall starting to write while we lived in Motherwell.  It's not Poet Laureate material - but it is sincere! 

Where would I be without His grace

Who gave His life for me?

Where would I be, had He not hung

On Calvary's cruel tree?

Lost in my sin, I trod life's way;

Pleasure my only goal

But, deep in my heart, my conscience would say

'This never will make you whole'!

Still I rebelled; I put myself first;

Ignored that urgent call.

I know, now, I was of sinners the worst

E'en 'though I still tried to 'walk tall'.

But, praise to His Name, His Spirit broke through,

And opened my eyes to my need.

Now I am His, and He is mine -

His prompting I seek to heed.

He's there for you, too, whoever you are.

Respond to His love and His grace.

Then, with me, you'll stand on that wonderful Day

And gaze on His beautiful face.

That's where I'll be when the trumpet shall sound,

And the saints rise to meet, in the air,

The Saviour they've loved, and Who now bids them 'Come!'

Where will I be?  I'll be there!

Only one question - where will you be?