Looking Truth in the Face

“Pontius Pilate’s interrogation of Christ has always interested me for the great irony it presents. The King of Kings stands before the inquisition and judgment of the Roman ruler of Judea, one of the least respected Roman provinces. When Pilate asked Jesus if He was a king, Jesus responded, ‘You say that I am a king. For this purpose I was born and for this purpose I have come into the world – to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth listens to my voice’ (John 18:37). Pilate gave the classic response of a skeptic: ‘What is truth?’ There stood Jesus, the Personal embodiment of Truth; Pilate stood looking Him in the face, and Pilate could not see Him. This scene, to me, perhaps portrays most clearly the effects of human depravity on the mind. Pilate, an educated man, looked Truth Himself in the face and asked, ‘What is truth?'”

~ Joel McDurmon, Biblical Logic: In Theory & Practice (Introduction, pp. 9-10)

Advertisements

Like Gold in the Ore

“We love a saint, though he has many personal failings. There is no perfection here. In some, rash anger prevails; in some, inconstancy; in some, too much love of the world. A saint in this life is like gold in the ore, much dross of infirmity cleaves to him, yet we love him for the grace that is in him. A saint is like a fair face with a scar: we love the beautiful face of holiness, though there be a scar in it. The best emerald has its blemishes, the brightest stars their twinklings, and the best of the saints have their failings. You that cannot love another because of his infirmities, how would you have God love you?”

~ Thomas Watson, All Things For Good

“Old Ironsides”

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon’s roar;
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o’er the flood
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the God of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think." – Lord Byron