Psalm 36

An oracle within my heart concerning the sins of the wicked:

There is no fear of God before my eyes; my sobriety comes and goes with each passing wind of temptation to lust or sloth; I put up no determined resistance to what is contrary to Holiness. Rather, I flatter myself that if I pay no attention to sin, the transgression will fade to insignificance, the evil wondrously mitigated. Though I discover my iniquity myself, speak condescendingly to my neighbor, despise and belittle my brother, and am embittered against the one who sees my faults, I will conclude that it is but natural; the offense is not great; “God? Who is He?”

When I speak pompous words of intent and activity, I cover myself with filthy deceit. Self-promotion, pride, emptiness more wicked for the fullness it professes – these sins fill my heart and spill from my mouth. True wisdom has long since departed; the mind of man and the heart alone cannot achieve the wisdom of God however vigourously they knock about, poke in the corners, and work to stir up and inflate understanding. A man in sin continuing can know nothing of wisdom, for wisdom, true wisdom, leads to what is God.

Goodness and that man who reconciles himself with ‘one more time’ have chosen paths and gone their ways. A hundred earthly acts of good may be garnered to overshadow his wretchedness, but he cannot reach the goodness of true godliness; he cannot do good anymore than he can stand on water. The works of man cannot produce the righteousness of God.
I have turned from holiness; there can be no good. Even at rest my sins multiply in me and against me; my mind pursues what is not right, it nurtures grievances, it dwells on humbling experiences sighing. But I am unable to sigh and cry over sin; I do not abhor sin – it is my precious, my bosom friend, my heart’s familiar one. It is mine, my pit, and I am loathe not to fall into it.

This is me. Ah help! Oh hope! Where is there freedom, where is my saving from the ‘right way’ of death?

Your mercy, O Lord; if it were not in the heavens,
Your faithfulness, if it was not so high as the clouds,
Your righteousness is rugged and stable,
Your judgments, who can fathom them?

By these we are preserved; by these the birds of the air and the beasts of the field yet live – You uphold them; and You are our preservation.

- these are lost and dying. there was an old lady across the way from my house who was wheeled out most evenings to participate in the sunset and evening air. She was there but she wasn't; from the beginning she was waited on as if by pallbearers. I ached for her as I watched her head droop lower and twist to the side. Her mouth needed wiping then; her tongue stopped shaping words, and the women talked around her; she couldn’t see her granddaughter’s picture or the excitement in her eyes. The children were shooed off, night set in, and she was wheeled away. I made her a cake once; it molded as I debated whether or not to break cultural rules and stagger through an explanation of what it was for. She had no where to go and no one to point her the way. Her body lies covered by a few inches of dust in an open cement casket pointed south by southwest.

They all go this way, the future so unclear they stumble into it as children off the merry-go-round. It’s a tough question, this “what is to become of those who never hear,” and one that I only find answer for in the sovereignty of God. Some tell me that’s no answer at all, that everyone has a choice. I agree in a way they find disagreeable:
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