A prayer of the prophet Habakkuk, with orchestra: God, Ive heard what our ancestors say about you, and Im stopped in my tracks, down on my knees. Do among us what you did among them. Work among us as you worked among them. And as you bring judgment, as you surely must, remember mercy. Gods on his way again, retracing the old salvation route, Coming up from the south through Teman, the Holy One from Mount Paran. Skies are blazing with his splendor, his praises sounding through the earth, His cloud–brightness like dawn, exploding, spreading, forked–lightning shooting from his hand–– what power hidden in that fist! Plague marches before him, pestilence at his heels! He stops. He shakes Earth. He looks around. Nations tremble. The age–old mountains fall to pieces; ancient hills collapse like a spent balloon. The paths God takes are older than the oldest mountains and hills. I saw everyone worried, in a panic: Old wilderness adversaries, Cushan and Midian, were terrified, hoping he wouldnt notice them. God, is it River youre mad at? Angry at old River? Were you raging at Sea when you rode horse and chariot through to salvation? You unfurled your bow and let loose a volley of arrows. You split Earth with rivers. Mountains saw what was coming. They twisted in pain. Flood Waters poured in. Ocean roared and reared huge waves. olivetree/b1/Hab.3.1-10.Message
Posted on: Wed, 30 Oct 2013 04:22:00 +0000
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