Job 11:18 And thou shalt be secure, because there is hope;
yea, thou shalt dig about thee, and thou shalt take thy rest in safety.
I believe that sometimes, we need to be reminded to hope. We need to remember that we can be secure. I am learning that hope is a choice to make. I choose to be hopeful. I choose to take my rest. I choose to believe. One of the greatest blessings that I cling to is the knowledge that God is real in my life. That He knows me. He knows who I am. Both the person that I am deep inside, and the person that I am striving to be. He knows my name.
One of my favorite poems reminds me to hope when times seem dark, when no one believes in me, when I might not even know my own worth. I still have value to Him and I am worth saving. Hope is what I hold to my heart when belief isn't quite enough.
Touch of the Master's Hand
'Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer
Though it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time with the old violin
But he held it up with a smile
What am I bidden, good folk, he cried
Who'll start the bidding for me
A dollar, a dollar, come, who'll make it two
Two dollars, now who'll make it three
Three dollars once and three dollars twice
Going for three -- but no
From the back of the room a grey haired man
Stepped forward and picked up the bow
And brushing the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the loose strings
He played a melody as pure and sweet
As the caroling angels sing
When the music ceased the old auctioneer
In a voice that was quiet and low
Asked, What am I bid for the old violin
And he held it up with the bow
A thousand dollars -- come, who'll make it two
Two thousand, and who'll make it three
Three thousand once and three thousand twice
And going and gone, cried he
The people cheered, but some of them cried
We do not quite understand
What changed its worth -- swift came the reply
T'was the touch of the master's hand
And many a man with life out of tune
And battered and scarred with sin
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine
A game and he travels on
He's going once and he's going twice
He's going and almost gone
But the master comes and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the master's hand