I'm really sick of the soul.
I get up every morning now, and I am offered my day. I get that sickly sense of soul life, closely followed by a whiff of the Spirit: the fork in the road marked, the choice given. I am able to grasp my glorious cross and embrace it's death, grievous sorrow, and unlimited heavenly joy, or I can simply live my own soulical, God conscious life. I can enter into the Divine Destiny and Purpose, or I can live the simple, easy, quiet soul-life. I've begun to notice more of the outer working of the latter choice, and I'm really growing to hate it. Hate is a strong, abrupt word, and I mean it.
Every day I arise from my slumber, and my day can consist of the crucified, glorious life of an adopted son; or it can be the regular joe, trying in some backward way to work into the Presence. "All you have to do is die to the world, and live to me" the words say. That's all I have to do, but sometimes I just don't do it. Sometimes the early morning spiritual desire doesn't come, and I let my day slip. Sometimes I just forget. Sometimes I FORGET! And then I pay for it, the rest of the day, because my thirst has been dulled in the hubbub of the day: the soul takes over, and I'm in the wrong place. Everything is fought against the grain. Everything, my mind, my desires for God, even my prayer seems to slip under the more sensual soul life, sinless from overt deed, but largely spiritless too. Those sorts of days never see the True Light of God's face. By this time at night I'm dry and thirsty, and I regret my whole day of walking backward. Not that I walk away from God, but that my effort for Him becomes all soulish and impotent. It's like trying to bottle the breeze, rather than fly in it.
Oh, that wonderful cross, it's the only thing which frees me from a life source which is not God. May God bring that cross to me every morning, and staple me to it. Goodbye Soul...Blessed Riddance.
I get up every morning now, and I am offered my day. I get that sickly sense of soul life, closely followed by a whiff of the Spirit: the fork in the road marked, the choice given. I am able to grasp my glorious cross and embrace it's death, grievous sorrow, and unlimited heavenly joy, or I can simply live my own soulical, God conscious life. I can enter into the Divine Destiny and Purpose, or I can live the simple, easy, quiet soul-life. I've begun to notice more of the outer working of the latter choice, and I'm really growing to hate it. Hate is a strong, abrupt word, and I mean it.
Every day I arise from my slumber, and my day can consist of the crucified, glorious life of an adopted son; or it can be the regular joe, trying in some backward way to work into the Presence. "All you have to do is die to the world, and live to me" the words say. That's all I have to do, but sometimes I just don't do it. Sometimes the early morning spiritual desire doesn't come, and I let my day slip. Sometimes I just forget. Sometimes I FORGET! And then I pay for it, the rest of the day, because my thirst has been dulled in the hubbub of the day: the soul takes over, and I'm in the wrong place. Everything is fought against the grain. Everything, my mind, my desires for God, even my prayer seems to slip under the more sensual soul life, sinless from overt deed, but largely spiritless too. Those sorts of days never see the True Light of God's face. By this time at night I'm dry and thirsty, and I regret my whole day of walking backward. Not that I walk away from God, but that my effort for Him becomes all soulish and impotent. It's like trying to bottle the breeze, rather than fly in it.
Oh, that wonderful cross, it's the only thing which frees me from a life source which is not God. May God bring that cross to me every morning, and staple me to it. Goodbye Soul...Blessed Riddance.