Oh that place of humility and grace.

Take me to You Jesus.

I’m all Yours.



Grecian urn.jpg
Picture from http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/vase/hd_vase.htm

Appreciating the true beauty of a thing or a person is a good place to start.
Pornography is not beauty.  It is the opposite. It tries to meet an ideal that is not real. No one looks like painted porcelain dolls in real life.

Yet everyone has a beauty that goes beyond the physical to the inside. There is the beauty in a sense of humor. Or the beauty in a flower. I’m not trying to find the perfect flower. Each flower is different and yet they all smell good and look good in their own way.

God made people and not appreciating people is an insult to Him.


I often have trouble believing that God can use someone like me. I am dust and I am dirt and I am mere mud.
What can the potter do with mud except make wonderful pottery?

I’m not trying to present false humility which puts myself down falsely. I am trying to be with Jesus which recognizes His greatness. He does not have to let me live any more than I have to let the ant live which I am about to step on.

I guess what I am trying to portray is what it is like to enter the throne room of the King. There is awe. There is respect. I am not trying to speak first. There is quietness. There is thankfulness and there is praise. It is worshipful to slip into awareness of His presence.

I loose my sense of self. I am no longer all consumed with what I need and want and I apprehend Him. My savior, Jesus. My God and King.
‘Praise You Jesus. Praise You.’

Isa 64:8 (KJ2000) ” 8 But now, O LORD, you are our father; we are the clay, and you our potter; and we all are the work of your hand. ”

2Cor 4:7 (KJ2000) ” 7 But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. ”



“Pulvis et umbra sumus. (We are but dust and shadow.)”
― Horace, The Odes of Horace


“The seeker after truth should be humbler than the dust. The world crushes the dust under its feet, but the seeker after truth should so humble himself that even the dust could crush him. Only then, and not till then, will he have a glimpse of truth.”
― Mahatma Gandhi, The Story of My Experiments With Truth


“At best we are but clay, animated dust; but viewed as sinners, we are monsters indeed. Let it be published in heaven as a miracle that the Lord Jesus should set His heart’s love upon people like us.”
― Alistair Begg

Three from https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/tag/dust


Also I must include Ode on a Grecian Urn though I hardly understand it.

Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”


Also a link to a great poet