a prayer to You

It's sunny outside. One of your gifts once more.
I feel my soul reviving. You are the author of this.
No one is like you, God
I'm fighting, you know to see more of you in my life
For it's easy, very easy to trust in myself
So easy to look on my faults or on my merits
To set me high or set me low
When I'm to set my eyes on you, the Most High
It's easy to beat the air and feel miserable on my own
It's hard to keep on fighting this battle
But you, O Lord are my mighty King
who conquer with one word all of my enemies
who destroy the schemes of the enemy
and restore me into your fold
O, how could I not be grateful for such mercy and kindness
The love that you poured out on my soul is not to be seen
but rather to be used up to sing you praises
and then to look also on the least of the least
Very much I was like the beggar outside the cathedral
Without the precious look on his eyes
For you were looking on me
Not for pity but to tell me you were there for me
To see you High and to see you here I long for
I long for more of that dear Savior
Take me once again in your arms
Never to let me go
And then release me to love others like you do
But do not do it without the Precious Helper
that you might receive all honor and glory
Be glorified O Lord!

Sing this to Him

[...]Then here is Luther writing to a monk in distress about his sins: 'Learn to know Christ and him crucified. Learn to sing to him and say "Lord Jesus, you are my righteousness, I am your sin. You took on you what was mine; yet set on me what was yours. You became what you were not, that I might become what I was not"' (John Stott, The Cross of Christ, pp 200)

The fountain

A certain man placed a fountain by the wayside and he hung up a cup near to it by a little chain. He was told some time after that a great art-critic had found much fault with his design. "But", said he, "do many thirsty persons drink at it?" Then they told him that thousands of poor people, men, women and children, slaked their thirst at this fountain; and he smiled and said, that he was little troubled by the critic's observation, only he hoped that on some sultry summer's day the critic himself might fill the cup, and be refreshed, and praise the name of the Lord (C.H. Spurgeon, All of Grace)