Dear Precious Reader,
Have you ever been just overwhelmed by the goodness of our God and His many benefits? This is why I wrote this poem.In this tender hymn of ceaseless bounty, you are invited to behold God as the Eternal Giver—the One whose hand never closes, whose grace flows like oil that keeps pouring until every vessel overflows. With rich biblical imagery, the poem draws all of us to see the Lord as the daily Manna surrounding the camp, the Smitten Rock pouring living water, the soft rain on thirsty valleys, and the broad river that never sleeps. Every sunrise brings fresh mercy, every hour a new feast, and every grain of time trails a myriad of unseen kindnesses behind it. I marvel at the impossibility of counting God’s blessings—more than the dust of Jacob, more than I could ever number—yet each day He loads all of us with benefits and crowns our head with loving-kindness. The hymn rises to a joyful call: “Awake, my soul! Awake, dull tongue, and sing!” May it stir us to lett every instrument of praise join in, for the Everlasting Spring never fails. It ends with our own longing to remain in ceaseless gratitude until we stand ransomed and pure in His presence, where giving itself is swallowed up in fullness. May these verses stir your heart today as they have stirred mine—to taste and see the inexhaustible generosity of our King, and to respond with open-handed worship and quiet wonder.
Grace and peace to you,
(After 1 Timothy 6:17 and Spurgeon’s Morning Thought)
1 Timothy 6:17 (KJV)
Charge them that are rich in this world, that they be not highminded, nor trust in uncertain riches, but in the living God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy;
O Thou who giv’st us richly all to enjoy,
Whose hand ne’er closeth, nor for moment stays,
Eternal Giver, Source without alloy,
Whose sun of grace through endless morning rays!
As oil that floweth where the vessels stand
Till every brim o’erfloweth with Thy store,
So dost Thou pour from Thy unstinting hand
Fresh mercy, new as dawn, and more, and more.
Thou art the manna round our camp that falls,
The smitten Rock whose living waters leap;
The rain that droppeth soft on thirsty vales,
The river broad that knoweth not to sleep.
Thy branches bend with fruit for mortal need,
Each day a feast, each hour a banquet spread;
No pilgrim turns unbless’d from Thy rich mead,
No hunger’d soul ariseth unfed.
The sands of time fall slow, yet ever trail
A myriad mercies in their golden wake;
The wings of hours are silver’d with Thy hail,
And every star a herald of Thy sake.
Who can recount the dust of Jacob’s gain,
Or number forth the fourth part of Thy grace?
Daily Thou loadest us, and yet again
Dost crown our heads with loving-kindness’ lace.
Awake, my soul! Awake, dull tongue, and sing!
Let psaltery and harp their voices raise;
For He who is the everlasting Spring
Can never fail, through all eternal days.
O King immortal, let my praise endure
As ceaseless as the bounty Thou dost send;
Till in Thy presence, ransomed and made pure,
I taste the fullness where all giving ends.
Passionately Pursuing Christ 