It’s bitter cold; 20°. My buttercups hang limply in their frigid place holding on to their God yellow even in the throes of their demise. It is sorrowful to have seen them so hopefully proclaiming all things being made new only to have my hopes hammered by cold still. My buttercups continue to proclaim God in yellow even though the sun will wait a few more months. Hark the herald yellow sings, Glory; your ambassadorship has served Him and us—well.
No comments:
Post a Comment