Christ the Rock in the weary land

Christ the Rock in the weary land 

"He made him drain nectar out of the stone, oil out of the hard shake." (Deuteronomy 32:13)

"The Lord is my stone and my post and my Savior, my God, my stone in whom I take asylum, my shield, and the quality of my salvation, my fortress." (Psalm 18:2)

"Also, a MAN should be as a concealing spot from the breeze, and a safe house from the storm, similar to surges of water in a dry place, similar to the shadow of an awesome shake in an exhausted land." (Isaiah 32:2)

Give the voyagers through the dry deserts of Arabia, a chance to tell how consoling the shadow of a cloud is—which reduces the warmth in a parched place. Give the leave drifters a chance to advise what it is to conceal their seared shoulders from the consuming sun in the shadow of a stone. How much more noteworthy reason have I to brag of my Rock! From his penetrated side the wellspring of life streams—which empties refreshment into my gasping soul. Here I have shadow from the warmth, as well as safe house from the tempest.

What is firmer than a stone? Winds may rip the cedars of Lebanon, and shred them by their foundations: yet here the whirlwinds beat, and are astounded; the surges dash, and are broken; time drifts, and erodes not the hard mass. In any case, rocks are not defensive layer against each intrusion from demolition and destroy. For see, the incensed thunders rip their transcending tops, and furious quakes hurl them from their seats, while the earth underneath opens frightfully, and shrouds the heavy stacks. Be that as it may, my Rock might stand quick perpetually, when the establishments of the earth are moved, and the mainstays of paradise tremble! There should I be sheltered, when the hail might clear away the asylums of untruths; yes, when God might rain on delinquents—catches, fire, and brimstone, in the angry tempest of fury, I might sing in security, being an occupant of the Rock of ages, from which I never might be moved!

No big surprise, at that point, that the holy person of God yells for satisfaction, being an occupant on high, and having for his place of safeguard the post of rocks. Now and again, to be sure, the visually impaired world is prepared to charge, that their stone has deserted them, and that if God were their God, definitely he would mediate for them—when they see saints going to execution; some to the gibbet, and others to be suffocated in the ocean; some to the rack, and others to the fire. In any case, at that point their perfect Comforter imperceptibly goes to them, and he whose shape resembles the child of God strolls with them in the midst of the fire, and fans away the fire. This is the Rock from which I am loaded with nectar, the Rock that spills out streams of oil for me.

Do rocks shield me from impacts, from whatever quarter they blow? So does my Rock. Is the impact from hellfire? All things considered, he has the keys of damnation and of death. Is it from transgression? He is my uprightness. Is it from Satan? He has vanquished territories and forces. Is it from torments? He is my identifying and cherishing High Priest. Is it from misfortunes? He is my surpassing extraordinary reward. Is it from crosses? He influences everything to cooperate for good to his kin. Is it from anguish? He is my delight. Is it from murkiness? He is my Sun. Is it from questions? He is my Counselor. Is it from deadness? He is my life. Is it from adversaries? He is my shield. Is it from enticement? He is my deliverer. Is it from false companions? He will never abandon me, nor spurn me. Is it from isolation or expulsion? He is wherever present. Is it from illness? He is my healer. Is it from death? He is the restoration and the life.

O eminent asylum! O beyond any doubt barrier! O everlasting fortification! Here do I oppose the most noticeably awful that earth and hellfire can do. Hereafter will I live by confidence, in the MAN who is my concealing spot from the breeze, my safe house from the whirlwind, my surge of water in a dry place, my shadow of an incredible shake in a tired land—until the point that each impact has blown over, and not a debilitating cloud shows up in my sky—until the point that my paradise is embellished with everlasting day, and each tempest is cleared from the air which I relax!

"Furthermore, a MAN might be as a concealing spot from the breeze, and a safe house from the storm, similar to surges of water in a dry place, similar to the shadow of an extraordinary shake in an exhausted land." (Isaiah 32:2)