Psalm 90:12
“Teach us to number our days,that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12)
Some people don’t like to think about the end of the journey, but that’s a great mistake. God tells us we’ll gain great wisdom by thinking about the end of life: “Every living man is no more than a puff of wind, no more than a shadow…I am only your guest for a little while.” (Psalm 39:5,12) “Teach us how short our life is, so that we may become wise.” (Psalm 90:12) And knowing this he uses his short time on earth to prepare for eternity. That is true wisdom. The grace of growing old, resources for the journey. For the feelings of uselessness, loneliness, bitterness, fear? The promises of God! Trust him! He’s strong enough, smart enough and loves you enough to die for you. You can trust him!
Let Me Get Home Before Dark
It’s sundown, Lord.
The shadows of my life stretch back
the dimness of the years long spent.
I fear not death, for that grim foe betrays himself at last,
thrusting me forever into life:
Life with you, unsoiled and free.
But I do fear.
I fear the Dark Spectre may come too soon—
or do I mean, too late?
That I should end before I finish or
finish, but not well.
That I should stain your honor, shame your name,
grieve your loving heart.
Few, they tell me, finish well…
Lord, let me get home before dark.
The darkness of a spirit grown mean and small,
fruit shriveled on the vine,
bitter to the taste of my companions,
burden to be borne by those brave few who love me still.
No, Lord. Let the fruit grow lush and sweet, a
joy to all who taste;
Spirit – sign of God
at work, stronger, fuller, brighter at the end.
Lord, let me get home before dark.
The darkness of tattered gifts,
rust-locked, half-spent or ill-spent,
A life that once was used of God
now set aside.
Grief for glories gone or
Fretting for a task God never gave.
Mourning in the hollow chambers of memory,
Gazing on the faded banners of victories long gone.
Cannot I run well unto the end?
Lord, let me get home before dark.
The outer me decays —
I do not fret or ask reprieve.
The ebbing strength but weans me from mother earth
and grows me up for heaven.
I do not cling to shadows cast by immortality.
I do not patch the scaffold lent to build the real, eternal me.
I do not clutch about me my cocoon,
vainly struggling to hold hostage
a free spirit pressing to be born.
But will I reach the gate
in lingering pain, body distorted, grotesque?
Or will it be a mind wandering
un-tethered among light fantasies or grim terrors?
Of your grace, Father, I humbly ask…
Let me get home before dark