A November sky, displaying clouds filled with dust particles shining like diamonds,
The perfect ceiling, suspended in space over a furrowed field of forgotten gleanings.
Deep ruts in the earth, carved by a machine driven by a farmer – a man or woman who loves the earth.
The caretakers of God’s Creation.
As the landscape is in a constant state of metamorphosis,
So are we.
We have been crafted by an amazing God, who loves His creatures beyond measure.
He watches over us as He surveys the unfolding lives He has already arranged.
In the original design, man was taken from the earth.
A hunk of clay – sculpted into a body – into which He breathed life.
Meticulously He fashinoned each cell, crafted each gene,
So that no two would ever be the same.
The ruts created throughout a life are deeply imbedded into our existence.
They exhibit themselves in the passing of time and age.
Our bodies wear out.
They cling to life, but the natural thing to come is death.
The body will wash away in the sands of time.
It returns to the earth from which it came.
It dies, yet it will go on,
For those who know God.