God speaks fluently the language of the suffering.
He, Himself a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, draws near to our own.
A Sovereign offering solidarity.
A King with the power to descend, working mending where, before, there had only been brokenness.
Moved by our plight, ππ π¦π¨π―ππ¬, inclining His ear to our prayersβemploying His strength in our weakness.
He, our tender Abba Father, not for a moment, unaware of, or indifferent to, our pain, instructs us to bring it to Him.
His scepter forever extended, we boldly approach the Throne of Grace, where grace itself abounds, and present to Him what we can neither fix, nor understand.
Our Sovereign, our King, our Redeemer.
He wraps us in mercy. Envelops us with peace. Cloaks us in grace. He gathers our offerings, careful not to waste a speck of what we fear wonβt matter.
It matters, indeed, beloved, and, what ππ offers in return, will be beauty you canβt begin to imagine now, but π°π’π₯π₯, with time (and trust and surrender) more than make up for all that preceded it.
Take heart, dear ones. He knows what to do with your precious, little lives. I can think of no better, more worthy, repository.
βLet us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.β
~ ππππ«ππ°π¬ π:ππ