We trusted." (Luke 24:21)
I have always felt so sorry that in that walk to Emmaus the disciples had not said to Jesus, "We still trust"; instead of "We trusted." That is so sad--something that is all over.
If they had only said, "Everything is against our hope; it looks as if our trust was vain, but we do not give up; we believe we shall see Him again." But no, they walked by His side declaring their lost faith, and He had to say to them "O fools, and slow of heart to believe!"
Are we not in the same danger of having these words said to us? We can afford to lose anything and everything if we do not lose our faith in the God of truth and love.
Let us never put our faith, as these disciples did, in a past tense--"We trusted." But let us ever say, "I am trusting." --Crumbs.
The soft, sweet summer was warm and glowing,
Bright were the blossoms on every bough:
I trusted Him when the roses were blooming;
I trust Him now…
Small were my faith should it weakly falter
Now that the roses have ceased to blow;
Frail were the trust that now should alter,
Doubting His love when storm clouds grow.
--The Song of a Bird in a Winter Storm.
I have always felt so sorry that in that walk to Emmaus the disciples had not said to Jesus, "We still trust"; instead of "We trusted." That is so sad--something that is all over.
If they had only said, "Everything is against our hope; it looks as if our trust was vain, but we do not give up; we believe we shall see Him again." But no, they walked by His side declaring their lost faith, and He had to say to them "O fools, and slow of heart to believe!"
Are we not in the same danger of having these words said to us? We can afford to lose anything and everything if we do not lose our faith in the God of truth and love.
Let us never put our faith, as these disciples did, in a past tense--"We trusted." But let us ever say, "I am trusting." --Crumbs.
The soft, sweet summer was warm and glowing,
Bright were the blossoms on every bough:
I trusted Him when the roses were blooming;
I trust Him now…
Small were my faith should it weakly falter
Now that the roses have ceased to blow;
Frail were the trust that now should alter,
Doubting His love when storm clouds grow.
--The Song of a Bird in a Winter Storm.