These past few years have afforded some serious struggle over the savage injustice for survivors of sexual abuse, myself notwithstanding. These past few days a bacterial brooding over the brutality has engulfed my inflamed soul. I pulled an Americano and went to my study to this:
“Why are there not judgment times for the wicked…? Why do those who know Him not see his judgment days? After all, it’s the wicked who seize the land that belongs to others… ALL of these criminals, the morning arrives arm in arm with the threat of being found out.”
(Apprehension fear: fear of being found out)
“It is the shadow of death to them for they are at ease with the terrors of the night.”
“The wicked may sit lightly on the surface of the waters, but their bit of land, the parcel (home) on which they live, is accursed; In fact, they don’t even turn down the road to their vineyards (place of fruitfulness) because they don’t produce.”
I can tell you that today, this ancient text springs from antiquity to remind me that the wicked, the weak, and the wrong have nothing on the wronged, the strong, and the right.
I’ll take my parcel and my peace this day. They have it not.