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A Golden Thread

A Golden Thread A poem by Erica Mace When fingers point, accuse the sky
For some unwanted episode
The wounded blame, and oft deny
That their hand also shapes the load,
Not only He who sits on high.

For did He not an earth create
By law and order, by design?
And does it not now operate
By those same laws, which He makes known,
Thus granting us our hand in fate?

For once created, life unfolds
With consequences predisposed.
Not hidden, buried there untold,
But preached by science, faith and time
That all might know, observe, behold.

When law’s unknown, it still remains
In force, but we less easily
Can see God’s plan, unbind our chains
Or be the agents we might be.
We point a finger in our pains.

But known, these laws inform our thought,
Have consequence, respond to tests.
Their truth endures, and so our lot
Is finding truth and living it--
For knowing only changes naught.

The laws we base our lives upon
Will cast their shadows, fill our lives.
They weave a web, become the song
That shimmers round us, gently guides,
And paves the road we walk along.

I’ll never know the line between
The weight of choice and God’s decree.
But I do know, for I have seen,
My pathway altered, shaped, preserved,
By golden threads of agency.

Thus, wielding power, why not try
To use God’s laws to forge my shield?
I do my part, and then rely
On One who saves, when I cannot.
He stands between my Judge and me.

For God, He knew that I would fail.
His Son will point no fing’r at me,
But offer hands with print of nail
Fulfill the law, extend mercy,
And guide my choice, so I prevail,
Both now and in eternity.

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