Soul of Utopian Gold

I pity the other children—men and women alike. For, they must rely on other equally flawed men and women to pen their story, give their eulogy, and carve their epitaph. They leave others, just as broken and confused, to gild their legacy. 

Such is not for me. 

I have chosen the unbounded celestial Author of all the universe for my writing. I give Him, and Him alone, ultimate authorial and editorial power over my person, my life, and my legacy.
What a story a supreme God spins! 

What a symphony an unlimited God composes! 

By His own admission, my life is measured only by the integrity of His heart and the skillfulness of His hands—utterly perfect. 

How holy is my shroud! 

How breath-taking and majestic is the gauze of wonder He has spread over my mere existence! 

How invincible the utopian gold from which my soul is forged! 

By blank stares and dropped gazes, I infer that I am not perceived as I believe to be. Knocking knees, feeble shoulders, a burdened brow, and tear-reddened eyes—are these the marks of an omnipotent Possessor? A short view, a narrow mind, a heart drowning in shallow water—are these the chosen materials of a Master Craftsman? Would the  universe’s King—sustaining the forests with His breath, swirling the skyscape with His fingertip, cradling the seven seas in the palm of His hand—choose such fault-ridden material for His masterpiece? 

Yes, I am all that you see me to be. And as such, it is beyond my meager station to presume the fancies of an infinite Lord. By His speech alone, I know my origin and my ownership to be true. Only with enlightened eyes, can I trace the brushstroke of His work through my short and quiet life. 

I do not know why God has chosen me, but I pity those who do not choose Him. 

The folly of the fallen is not what they did with their life but who they entrusted it to. So many squander a stolen life. 

I Praise God that He is gracious enough to receive the credit for mine. 


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