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The Wild

The terrible battle to be fought by the seeker of God is against unbelief. One moment, we can be so full of belief, of joy and excitement, assurance and boldness. Then, as little as it takes to slam a door, so quickly and surely have saints of God known the onslaught of unbelief in all its terrible power.

Our fight is the fight of faith. Our faith is the victory. Nor is it a faith concocted, a matter of will power. It is rather, a surrender to God, an acceptance of things as they are, an acknowledgment of things as they are and entrusting them entirely out of our control to His. Thus we come out of our valleys, our clouds of darkness and into the light.

Wave after wave,

Billow after billow,

No rest, no peace, except for a time,

A short time, a breather so to speak,

From the unrelenting pressures which increase.

Darkness all around us,

Blind alleys at every turn,

Clouds obscure the light of day

And leave us damp and cold.

When will we be free?

When will the storm cease?

Has it no end? Has it no bounds?

Can we go on with our hopes

Dashed to pieces at every turn,

Like cardboard huts in a hurricane?

Is it sin in our lives that causes this state?

Is the wrath of God kindled against us?

Have we no hope, no reason to expect

An end to intermittent turmoil?

“There is no peace to the wicked,” the Scriptures say,

Yet we have searched and searched ourselves again.

And though we know that in our flesh dwells no good thing,

We still find ourselves without an answer.

The sky is as brass, His voice we don’t hear,

Our steps we seek counsel for, to no avail.

When will He come and show Himself?

When will we be clean to receive our King?

When can we have our hopes fulfilled?

Why does He hide His face from us?

How is it that curses seem to haunt us still?

Is our faith so small

That we do not enter in

To that which He has in store for us?

Or is this nothing more and nothing less

Than a process of refinement,

A must like the seasonal pruning of trees

To bear more fruit?

But where is the fruit?

I have my seasons of sorrow and humiliation,

But where are my seasons of harvest?

I despair from knowing the answer.

I thought I had it;

I do not.

I hoped I would receive it;

I haven’t.

Will I ever?

Have I confessed my unbelief

In asking if I’ll have an answer

When I ought to ask for it

Believing I have received it?

Lord, help my unbelief!

I am like one up to my nose in quicksand;

My perishing seems so sure.

I surely cannot help myself,

Nor can any man

or number of men

In anything they can do.

My only hope is that my God

Will come and lift me from the quagmire

In which I have fallen and sunk so deep.

I thought I was out, never to return.

Many times I thought I was out,

Only to find myself enveloped again.

How can these things be?

Do the Scriptures not tell us

Of a life of victory and of power?

Are only a chosen few

Given to be as Stephen and Samuel?

Or have they too had such lives

Of trial and loss and failure

Before the dawning of their day

To shine as lights much brighter than the day?

Am I to believe

That this is a preparation,

That all goes according to plan?

Or must I fear

That all is almost lost,

That I have failed,

That there is no base for hope any more

That God will not deliver

A sinner such as I?

Yet a faint glimmer of hope lives on

Even as I enquire.

I know my God is able;

I know I want His will

At any cost there is.

And so I wait

And wait

And wait

And faint

And hope

That He will save

And manifest Himself

Once more forever more,

Never to leave again,

His presence ever there

For me to enjoy.

Hear me, Lord, and hear my cry,

I have no one but You.

If all this cloud and quiet

Is for our very best

Then can I accept it, assured

That You will come and be to us

What You have promised

In Your appointed time.

Must I also be in the dark

About this as well?

How much harder it is to live

With uncertainty upon uncertainty!

But if You are faithful

And if You choose,

You are able

To cleanse me and deliver me

To be with You

And You with Me.

Come Lord, please come.

Lethbridge, Sept. 1984

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