With love that knew no fear, the Singer caught his torment, wrapped it all in song and gave it back to him as peace.

We humans are a hungry lot. We are driven by a craving to know who we are. Yet who we are is embedded in the heart of a holy God. Unless we seek for ourselves in the epicenter of God's grace, we will be forever condemned to walk the arid edges of self-understanding.

We must look to Mary's example to know how to deal with the glorious impossibilities of God. Look how she turned the world upside down by making one simple statement.

The lips know only shallow tunes

A passion to obey Christ is born out of our relationship with him. The more we love him, the more we want him to be a part of our affairs.

Our problem is this: we usually discover him within some denominational or Christian ghetto. We meet him in a province and, having caught some little view, we paint him in smaller strokes. The Lion of Judah is reduced to something kittenish because our understanding cannot, at first, write larger definitions.

And now you have joy? I do indeed. And how did you get it? I chose it, admitted it into my life, then I celebrated its arrival in my heart. I made my celebration so loud and boisterous, I prohibited all gloom from attending the celebration.

Death is a confirmation of the believer's creed. For the skeptic it is discovery, immense and late.

One of the great things silence does, it gives us a new concept of God.

With what dread and apprehension we entrust important jobs into the hands of others. Imagine the love of a needless God who is willing to want our work.

Imagination must constantly run on a new track or it becomes lifeless. A living imagination is essential to prayer.

Define your times. Treasure your calling. Pray without ceasing. The terrors of the age are less than the grandeur of the Christ within you.

Love is substance Lust, illusion. Only in the surge of passion do the two mingle in confusion.

Life found itself alive and somehow knew its opposite was death. We are ever being born, or dying, and the thrill of choosing is ours. Only once, must we be born without our own consent. Only once, must we die without our own permission