Crooked Finger (crookedfingers) wrote,
Crooked Finger

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clouds of horror upon the sight of sin and sense of Divine wrath

It is 10:51 AM Thursday morning here in West Michigan. It is sunny cloudy windy morning. It has been a quiet morning. I am still trying to wake up.

Carol got home early from work and woke me up. When I got up it was 7:15 AM this morning. Carol was watching News on TV when I decided to face the light of day. I ate breakfast and then wrote in my paper diary.

Carol went to bed around 8 o'clock AM and works tonight then she is off till next week Tuesday. She told me this morning that the hospital was not busy, there was not much to do.

This morning I have done nothing but watch the birds by our bird feeder and wander. I am planning to spend the day doing nothing. I did get out these books to read throughout the day today-

'A Treatise On Comforting Afflicted Consciences' by Robert Bolton (1572-1631)

'The Works of William Perkins' Volume 9

'A Puritan Theology: Doctrine For Life' by Joel R. Beeke & Mark Jones

Last night I wrote in my paper diary and watched an old James Bond movie. I went to bed around 10:50 AM and now it is another day.

Well I will close to sit and wait it out.

710 104th John Berridge
“The heart is deceitful.” Jer. 17. 9; Song 1. 5
No wisdom of man can spy out his heart,
The Lord only can show his hidden part,
Nor yet are men willing to have the truth told,
The sight is too killing for pride to behold.
A look from the Lord discovers our case,
And bringeth his word attended with grace;
The man is convicted and feeleth his hell,
And groweth afflicted more than he can tell.
If once the sun shines upon a soul clear,
He reads the dark lines which sin has writ there;
Begins to discover his colour and make,
And cries, I’m all over as any fiend black.
But when the Lord shows his satisfied face;
And buries our woes in triumphant grace,
This blessed look stilleth the mourner’s complaint,
And with a song filleth the mouth of the saint.
Sweet love and sweet shame now hallow his breast;
Yet black is his name, though by his Lord blest;
I am, he says, homely, deformed in each part;
All black, and yet comely, through Jesus’ desert.
A look of thy love is all that we want;
Ah! look from above, and give us content.
Looks set us adoring thy person most sweet,
And lay us abhorring ourselves at thy feet.

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