To Pluck: The Psalms in other Words.

xix.
The cloud and the stars act like a megaphone yelling God is alive. All you dopes, wake up to the bargain and buy into the God-life. (Well sort of.)
They repeat later in the same day: It’s all the model that God built, look for more of him, he’s here till Friday.
Day after day, week after week, and millennia after millennia, the universe and even birds and planes open their mouths and bellow: ÒWe are too complicated for your lame as theories about time and beginnings. This is all the handiwork of someone you will never understand. Just drop your jaw a bit and drool for awhile. It wont be out of place.
The universal sound system busts out in every language known to man and some forgotten, even computer code, and baby gurgles.
The sound isn’t some tinny street screamer who is drowned out by skateboard wheels, the sound of GodÕs glory would pin a deaf person on mars to the wall in a sound proof room. No one can say they werenÕt around when God’s existence was announced.

In the heavens God has built a house for the sun, which is like a bride coming down the red carpet, decked out in silk, like a horse coming out of the blocks on Melbourne cup day. It runs from the east to the west, heating up every thing and giving light to all.

The fence posts that God has marked out are in the perfect places, neither too binding nor too loose. It revives the soul.
His ideas are trustworthy, giving phd’s to ADD kids.
His plans are right, revving up the heart.
His rules are shiny giving surgery to the blind, or maybe contact lenses.
His scariness is perfect, lasting more than the thrills from a B grade horror movie.
His footsteps are sure and not sunken, or going through a mine field.
His footsteps are more precious than oil, cars or projectors.
They are sweeter than honey.
They keep servants busy and on the right track, and out of trouble, and well paid.

Who can pick holes in God?
God, please plug some of the holes you see in me.
Stop me doing the wrong thing on purpose, free me from the traps that my wilful rebellion sets for my feet.
Then I will be spotless, and shiny, at least of the big sins.

God, please act as a censor for my lips, eyes, heart, and mind. Let nothing past.
You are my foundation, my saviour and the one that bought me out of slavery.

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