[APPLAUSE] VERY well done, Sir. Well done, indeed.
Your excellent contribution advances the discourse in furtherance of our mutual edification, for no lesser a light than St. Peter has, himself, addressed your same subject:
4 Come to Him [then, to that] Living Stone which men tried and threw away, but which is chosen [and] precious in God’s sight.
5 [Come] and, like living stones, be yourselves built [into] a spiritual house, for a holy (dedicated, consecrated) priesthood, to offer up [those] spiritual sacrifices [that are] acceptable and pleasing to God through Jesus Christ.
6 For thus it stands in Scripture [ref. Is. 28:16]: Behold, I am laying in Zion a chosen (honored), precious chief Cornerstone, and he who believes in Him [who adheres to, trusts in, and relies on Him] shall never be disappointed or put to shame.
— II Peter 2:4-6 AMP
And so the metaphor of a stone also undergirds (as a foundation) our prior themes: of being (for a stone has no busyness; it simply is); and of maturity (for in a stone we find that which is "older than the hills").
I have a flip side.
"And so the metaphor of a stone also undergirds (as a foundation) our prior themes: of being (for a stone has no busyness; it simply is); and of maturity (for in a stone we find that which is "older than the hills")."
I found this message a while ago.
Written In Stone
How is it you haven't read, then,
The notes that were carefully placed,
In layers of sedimentary rock,
So they wouldn't be simply erased?
My other stone writing you noted.
I guess brevity counts with you now,
It used to be any message,
Was like manna from Heaven somehow.
But before, you were watching the heavens,
And now you seem glued to that "set",
Which perhaps was a gift from Lucifer,
I haven't decided quite yet.
In any case I left some scribblings,
That I'd just jotted down on the fly,
As I puttered around in my Garden,
While a few million ages crept by.
Like flowers pressed between pages,
Impressions of things that once were,
Were cast in the layers of future rock,
And baked in the way that they stir.
A simmering, bubbling cauldron,
If your scale of observing is such,
That a million years is the blink of an eye,
And some things need a delicate touch.
Now you may think those notes are of failures,
Being things that I tried and put by,
But remember that all of them did once live,
Ere they came to that place where they'd die.
They succeeded in terms of getting along,
With the challenges they had to face,
Remarkable, really, that out of such wood,
I whittled the whole human race.
Now, off you go with your studies,
Don't think it's an open-book test!
This place that you think is a garden,
Is a prison for all but the best.
NicknamedBob . . . . April 29, 2009
Stones make my bed, too.