How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!

The crows can vocalize a sweet chorus to their Creator on Sunday morning. Such advanced ways. Who am I, but a man?

What do I owe the Lord for such favor in my life? When my mind can be a playground, the soul is still, through the tempest. Though the adversary places traps in the way, each is laid waste, with renewed energy, and promises for His loved ones.

Lord, to fall from your grace, is the folly of man, yet ALL THESE THINGS YOU CREATED! To God be the glory.