From "Why Me?" to "Thy Will"

I never saw a wild thing

sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough

without ever having felt sorry for itself.

Strange isn’t it? Animals accept what is. They face pain, hunger, and death without complaint. When the cold comes, a bird doesn’t curse the sky or question its Maker—it simply drops. No protest. No pause to ask, “Why me?” It just quietly falls.

Stoic or Trusting?

The quiet dignity of nature is admirable, but Scripture shows a higher one—not the silence of stoic indifference, but the peace of trusting Christ (Col. 3:15).

Perhaps, like me, when you read Lawrence’s poem you envy the small bird. It faces death without a tremor; I face mine with fear, pity, and longing. But the answer is not to find strength in feeling nothing, but strength in believing something.

Scripture doesn’t call me to feel nothing. It calls me to trust Someone. The wild thing dies unaware; the Christian dies assured. The difference is not stoicism but faith.

Lawrence gave us a haunting image—but Christ gives us a better one:

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father… Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows” (Matt. 10:29–31).

That’s where my thoughts begin—in the difference between Lawrence’s bird and the Christian’s living hope. Lawrence saw a bird fall and admired its indifference. Christ saw the same and said it could not happen apart from the Father. His eye is on the smallest life—and then said to us, “You are of more value than many sparrows.”

Death Is An Intruder

Sorrow over your own death is not weakness—it’s recognition of something unnatural. Death wasn’t part of God’s original design: “…you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die” (Gen 2:17).

God takes no pleasure in the death of anyone, including those lost in sin: “Have I any pleasure in the death of the wicked, declares the Lord GOD, and not rather that he should turn from his way and live?” (Eze. 18:23).

We grieve because something in us remembers Eden. The soul knows it was made for eternal life—in fellowship with God—“He has set eternity in the human heart” (Ecc. 3:11). So when you feel sorrow or even self-pity in the face of death, it’s not merely fear; it’s protest against something your spirit knows is wrong. When this sorrow turns inward, then it becomes self-pity, and we start asking, “Why me?”

Death exposes how frail the self is—how easily and quickly we come to an end, so we grieve not just the end of life but the end of our story, our influence, our projects, and unfinished plans.

You were made for permanence. So even when you’ve had decades of love, joy, children, and a mountain of memories with your best friend, your soul still whispers, “I was made for more.”

"Why Me?" Must Become "Thy Will"

The preacher of Ecclesiastes put it this way: “I hated all my labor which I had done under the sun, because I must leave it to the man who will come after me” (Ecc. 2:18). That’s self-pity in its ancient form—mourning the loss of control. But the Gospel calls us out of that illusion. None of what we hold was ever truly ours. The self we pity is the very self Christ came to crucify (Lk. 9:23). Peace doesn’t come from clinging—it comes from surrender.

Remember, He faced death without self-pity because He completely submitted to the Father’s will.

In Gethsemane He said: “My soul is deeply grieved, to the point of death” (Matt. 26:38). He felt the weight of it—every pulse of anguish—but in His sorrow He did not turn inward. He looked upward: “Nevertheless, not My will, but Yours, be done” (Lk. 22:42).

That’s the difference. Self-pity asks, “Why must I suffer?” Faith says, “I will glorify God through this suffering.” One feeds despair; the other feeds devotion. When our eyes fix on what we’re losing, we pity ourselves. When they fix on Whom we’re gaining, we find courage to keep running and finish strong (Heb. 12:1-2).

Paul knew this well: “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Phil. 1:21). He doesn’t pretend death is pleasant. He simply redefines it. Death no longer robs—it releases. As he says elsewhere: “Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (2 Cor. 5:8).

That’s where my focus must be—on Him, His promises, His faithfulness, and the home He’s prepared. We don’t find strength by pretending we don’t feel sorrow. That only feeds self-pity in the dark. Faithful men don’t pretend to be unshaken—they bring their fear to God and trust Him to grant strength, comfort, and peace.

The psalmists never hid their fear, confusion, guilt, grief, or even anger from God—each became prayer:

“Why are you cast down, O my soul?” (Ps. 42:5)

“How long, O LORD? Will You forget me forever?” (Ps. 13:1)

“Out of the depths I cry to You, O LORD!” (Ps. 130:1)

That’s not weakness. This is how you break the paralysis of inward sorrow—in faith, bring real pain before a real God rather than silently stew in it.

Take Job as another example. He, like the psalmist, teaches us to how to hand our sorrow to God.

Ashes to Awe

Job refused to hide his anguish from God. He spoke with a raw honesty that makes us uneasy— “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him: but I will argue my ways before Him” (Job 13:15)—yet God called him righteous. Why? He refused to stop talking to God, even when he didn’t understand and despised his own suffering.

Now Job got out of his lane with many presumptions, for which God rebuked him, but the God turns to his friends saying, “You have not spoken of Me what is right, as My servant Job has” (Job 42:7). What? How can this be?

Job’s words were full of confusion, pain, and anger—yet they were “right” because they were true to his heart before God. Not because his attitude was perfect, but because he didn’t play the hypocrite. He brought his tears before God and laid them at His feet. In doing so, Job began to shift from “What will happen to me?” to “Whose presence will I enter?”

In the early chapters, Job’s focus is his loss and pain.

He asks, “Why did I not perish at birth?” (Job 3:11).

He’s consumed by what has happened to him—this dominates his perspective.

That’s where most of us begin: bewildered, defensive, self-focused. Through the long dialogue with his friends and with God’s eventual answer, Job is pulled from self-absorption to revelation.

When God finally speaks (Job 38–41), He doesn’t explain the “why.” He reveals the “Who.”

Job’s clarity begins here:

“I have heard of You by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees You; therefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes” (Job 42:5–6).

That’s the turning point—from self-pity to awe. From “What’s happening to me?” to “I’m standing before Almighty God.”

Right after this revelation, God tells Job to pray for his friends (Job 42:8–10). That act of intercession marks the change. He’s no longer turned inward; he’s turned outward. Even in pain, he chooses to serve.

That act of intercession is the same pattern Christ displayed—turning outward in the midst of pain.

Job’s service and forgiveness signal that he’s learned the lesson: to trust God and to love others despite suffering.

The psalms trace this same movement: complaint, remembrance, praise.

Psalm 13

Complaint: “How long, O LORD? Will You forget me forever?” (v. 1)

Remembrance: “Consider and answer me, O LORD my God.” (v. 3) – he recalls God’s covenant name.

Praise: “But I have trusted in Your mercy; my heart shall rejoice in Your salvation.” (v. 5)

Psalm 42-43

Complaint: “My tears have been my food day and night…” (42:3)

Remembrance: “These things I remember, as I pour out my soul: how I went with the multitude to the house of God.” (42:4)

Praise/Reorientation: “Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him, the help of my countenance and my God.” (42:11; 43:5)

Psalm 77

Complaint: “Will the Lord spurn forever? Will He never again be favorable?” (vv. 7–9)

Remembrance: “I will remember the deeds of the LORD; surely I will remember Your wonders of old.” (v. 11)

Praise: “Your way, O God, is holy. What god is great like our God?” (v. 13)

Psalm 31

Complaint: “Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am in distress.” (v. 9)

Remembrance/Trust: “But I trust in You, O LORD; I say, ‘You are my God.’” (v. 14)

Praise: “Blessed be the LORD, for He has wondrously shown His steadfast love to me.” (v. 21)

Psalm 73

Complaint: “But as for me, my feet had almost slipped; I had nearly lost my foothold. For I envied the arrogant…” (vv. 2–3)

Remembrance/Reorientation: “Until I went into the sanctuary of God; then I discerned their end.” (v. 17)

Praise: “Whom have I in heaven but You? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides You.” (v. 25)

Psalm 22

Complaint: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (v. 1)

Remembrance: “Yet You are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel. In You our fathers trusted…” (vv. 3–4)

Praise: “From You comes my praise in the great congregation… all the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the LORD.” (vv. 25, 27)

Job follows that same arc. He begins with self-pity, confusion, and protest. When confronted by God’s power and revelation, he is humbled, stops questioning God, and starts to praise Him. He begins with protest and ends with worship, trust, and service.

That’s the proof of a heart transformed. But t happens only when one draws near to God in prayer and the study of His Word.

Christ completes the movement that Job began and the psalmists foreshadowed. He never asks, “What will happen to Me?” He rests completely in “Thy will be done.” He trusted His Father perfectly (1 Pet. 2:22–23). What we must learn to do better each day.

Job learned to let go of control. Christ went further—He let go of life itself. And this is where one of the hardest tests often waits for us. Not the dying, but the leaving. When love has bound your heart to those you cherish, surrender stops being theoretical. The hand that once prayed, “Thy will be done,” trembles to release what, rather who, it loves in this life. We must have faith, my friends—enough to trust God in death and to trust Him with those we leave behind.

Letting Go of Those We Love

There are so many days that have slipped through my fingers—each filled with moments that were precious but I couldn’t see that at the time. Now they’re gone. Time really does fly. You always assume there will be more and you miss the wonder and beauty unfolding before your very eyes. What seemed so mundane and ordinary was actually priceless. And all of my selfishness and entitlement—what I took for granted is crushing, inescapable, and horrifyingly clear.

After watching an entire generation die in the wilderness, Moses wrote, “Teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:12). He knew what it meant to feel time slip through fingers that once held promise.

I mourn not just days gone by, but what I failed to see in them—moments that were holy but treated as common. Time once wasted can’t be recovered, but it can be redeemed. Satan turns regret into despair; God turns it into wisdom. I can’t rewind, but I can live differently now.

Paul said to live “redeeming the time, because the days are evil” (Eph. 5:16).

That means to buy it back—to rescue what’s left from loss. You can’t do that by reliving old days, only by living these days with gratitude and intent.

The moments that feel ordinary are anything but. They’re glimpses into eternity. God hides His glory in the common so only the humble will appreciate it. “You will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” The greatest revelation of God—Christ Himself—appeared in poverty and obscurity.

“The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning” (Lam. 3:22-23). God’s faithfulness renews with each sunrise; every day’s simplest provisions are mercy renewed. Every breakfast, every laugh, every quiet evening—receive it as grace undeserved, and you’ll never call it “ordinary” again: “This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” (Ps. 118:24).

These moments of love and gratitude—these are what make death sting. Not the loss of things, but of people. Sin and death intruded on what God made good. The pain of loss whispers a lie—that death severs forever the people of God joined by grace.

Scripture reminds us: “The dead in Christ shall rise first… and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words” (1 Thess. 4:16–18).

The same God who gave you those fleeting days filled with blessings is preparing a day that will never end (Rev. 21:4). I will not cease to love my wife and sons in the resurrection—I’ll finally love them rightly, untainted by sin, fear, or the frailty of flesh.

All of our relationships and every affection we enjoy in this life are meant to teach us something about God’s love—not to replace it. That’s where self-pity and anxiety take root: when we cling to the gifts as if they were greater than the Giver.

Jesus warned, “He who loves father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me” (Matt. 10:37). It’s not a call to love them less, but to love them rightly—in Him, not above Him. When love is ordered under God, it deepens; when it competes with Him, it corrodes.

So if I hold any blessing as ultimate—spouse, child, comfort, or even ministry—it breeds fear and self-pity, because they were never meant to be ultimate. C. S. Lewis captured it well: “When I have learned to love God better than my earthly dearest, I shall love my earthly dearest better than I do now.”

That’s the paradox of faith: By remembering that every blessing is borrowed and undeserved, we learn to hold it with gratitude, not fear. By surrendering what isn’t ours to keep, we learn to love rightly: “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away, blessed be the Name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). Learn to love your family with eternity in view. Every breath, every joy, every person you hold dear is a trust from God. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights” (Jas. 1:17).

So thank Him for them. Steward them well. Live, speak, and write in such a way that your faith outlives you in them—“A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children” (Prov. 13:22), and that inheritance is first spiritual. Paul praised Timothy’s faith as a legacy from his mother and grandmother (2 Tim. 1:5). That’s what we’re meant to pass down—a living trust in God that continues after we’re gone.

When your time comes, your loved ones will find strength in remembering how you pointed them to the promises of God. And they’ll be kept by the same hand that now keeps you. “The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore” (Ps. 121:8). He loves them more than you ever could, and His hand will guard them when you no longer can.

Yet even knowing this, love still clings. It trembles at the thought of release. That trembling is where fear and jealousy can take root—the illusion that our absolute dearest in life is ours to keep forever. That’s where the next struggle begins—as we press on learning not to love less, but to entrust more.

Marriage Was Never Forever

God designed oneness with your spouse to be permanent:

“The two shall become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let not man separate” (Mk. 10:8–9).

Yet, earthly roles and relationships end with death—the marriage bond being one of them: “At the resurrection people will neither marry nor be given in marriage; they will be like the angels in Heaven” (Matt. 22:30). Death doesn’t destroy love, but it does dissolve this role.

As much as the thought of your wife’s heart and body belonging to someone else may haunt you, you were never intended to be her husband forever, nor she your wife. The reality is that the heart which once beat beside yours may some day beat next to another’s. That doesn’t mean the bonds we share are erased—but this pain reveals something holy. It reminds you that the covenant you share was never ultimate. It was a reflection.

Marriage, for all its beauty, is a shadow — not the substance

“For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. This mystery is great; but I speak concerning Christ and the church” (Eph. 5:32).

Your love was designed to point beyond itself—to prepare you for a union higher and holier than any earthly bond.

Your marriage is a small, sacred window into an eternal reality—Christ’s love for His people. The shadow will pass, but the reality will remain.

In the life to come, you will still love her—more fully, more purely—but without the limitations of possession, exclusivity, or fleshly jealousy. Love will finally be free of the insecurities that plague it here. “…it has not appeared as yet what we will be. We know that when He appears, we will be like Him, because we will see Him just as He is” (1 Jn. 3:2). That’s hard to accept now because you can’t yet imagine a love purer and deeper than what you've known here. But you will. The bonds we share here are not forgotten — they’re fulfilled in a way that completely eclipses their purity and depth here.

If you both remain faithful, no matter who departs first, you can look forward to a reunion untouched by sin or separation — a love swallowed up in glory, not grief. You’ll still know her, but as one perfected among the redeemed. You’ll still love her, but as Christ loves — eternally, completely, and without fear of loss.

Loving in Light of Heaven

Think about what draws you to your wife—her warmth, gentleness, her beauty, laughter, her presence, her love, her trust.

Every one of those qualities is a faint reflection of Christ Himself.
So when you grieve the thought of losing her, you’re not just mourning separation from her—you’re mourning separation from the goodness of God that shines through her.

Let that realization transform fear of loss into anticipation:

If such love exists here, how much greater must be the Source?
That’s why Paul called marriage a “mystery” pointing to Christ (Eph. 5:32). It’s never meant to compete with Heaven, but to be another glimpse of God’s perfect love.

But knowing what marriage means and resting in it are not the same. Our hearts stumble over the same stone—ownership. We want to believe we’d rejoice if God cared for her through another, yet the thought burns.

This exposes how much of our love is still about possession, not stewardship. The heart that once learned to love can just as easily turn to clutching again. And nothing exposes that faster than imagining the one we love being cared for by another.

Now ask yourself the harder question: what’s the alternative?

Would you wish her years of solitude, bound by a vow you can no longer keep?

Would you find comfort in knowing she “remained yours” if that meant she lived the rest of her days in loneliness and tears?

If you could see her smile again—strengthened by grace, upheld by God, even comforted through another’s companionship—you’d rejoice. You’d know God had cared for her just as you prayed He would.

You must love her in Him—not as one who possesses, but as one who was entrusted. Love her in light of who gave her, sustained her, and will care for her after you’re gone.

She was His before she was yours. She always belonged to Him—entrusted to you in covenant, which is why He is angered when you deal treacherously with her (Mal. 2:14); to wrong her is to abuse what ultimately belongs to Him.

The same God who joined you in covenant with her has numbered your days—and hers (Ps. 139:16). Your story together is written by His hand, and is complete only when He says so and turns the final page.

Two things can be true at once: You can (and should) love her passionately, but not possessively. When you remember that she was entrusted to you, not owned by you, you’re selfish entitlement and taking her for granted will cease.

When Christ becomes supreme, earthly love doesn’t fade; it’s purified. Jealousy dissolves, gratitude deepens, and longing for Heaven grows because we trust the Giver more than the gift.

Whatever this life holds, the day will come when the Lord gathers all His saints—not as spouses, but as perfected family (Rev. 21:3–4).

Like Paul, we rest in knowing “whom we have believed,” persuaded that “He is able to keep what we have entrusted to Him until that day” (2 Tim. 1:12).

In trusting our loved ones and ourselves to the Father’s care, we find peace. But that trust must not wait for death—it’s the discipline of daily living.

Each day we place our work, our wives, our children, and our own hearts in His hands, learning to trust Christ more and more long before our final breath. The Christian who lives surrendered will die assured.

Death, then, becomes not the loss of what we cherish, but the completion of what we’ve trusted to God all along. And that’s where we circle back to where this began—to a frozen bird on a branch, and to a far higher kind of peace.

Into the Father’s Hands

Lawrence admired the small bird that died in silence. But the Christian can die in peace and assurance knowing whom he has believed.

Our goal isn’t to feel nothing, but to face the end with a peace born of trust.

It’s not the silence of indifference, but the serenity of faith.

The stoic hardens himself; the Christian humbles himself.

Christ showed this most perfectly in Gethsemane. He was “sorrowful, even unto death” (Matt. 26:38). His tears were not weakness—they were worship. In anguish He prayed, “Nevertheless, not My will, but Yours, be done” (Lk. 22:42).
That’s the difference between composure and courage: stoicism suppresses feeling; faith overcomes it.

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” (Ps. 116:15).
God does not watch His children die with cold detachment. He counts every breath, gathers every tear, and receives every soul as treasure.

Faith shines when we entrust not only our own life, but the lives of those we love, into His care. The courage to die well grows from the same faith that releases others into God’s keeping.

On the cross, Jesus’ final acts were both surrender and entrusting: He gave His spirit to the Father and His mother into another’s care (Jn. 19:26–27).

If such faith is the standard, how do we cultivate it? Scripture gives us simple, searching steps.

Confess, Don’t Collapse

Let conviction lead to repentance, not despair. Speak honestly of your weakness before God and before others. Healing begins where pretense ends.

Meditate on Hope

Let the promises of resurrection speak louder than the noise of fear. Remember—death is not your undoing but your unveiling.
“He will swallow up death for all time, and the Lord GOD will wipe tears away from all faces” (Isa. 25:8).

Bless Future Days

Pray for those you’ll leave behind. Ask that your faith outlive you in them. Like Paul, pour yourself out now as a drink offering, so that others may rise stronger in your wake (2 Tim. 4:6–8).

Redeem the Time

The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning. They know a day is coming when they won't wake up and go about their business as usual. They know a day is coming when they will stand before the Lord in judgment (2 Cor. 5:17).

"Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is" (Eph. 5:17).

We all sorely complain of the shortness of time and yet have much more than we know what to do with. We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them.

And remember—the One who gave you your days and your dearest ones will not abandon them when you are gone. He who numbers the sparrows numbers them too (Matt. 10:29–31).

Live as those who know their worth.

Live as those whose sorrow is tempered by trust.

Live ready to release every gift back to the Giver with thanksgiving.

Dying in faith is not dying without emotion—it is passing from this life with assurance, knowing that the Father who tends the sparrow will not cease to tend those you love.

The same hand that receives you will remain upon them.

A Prayer

You have given me life, breath, and every good thing (Acts 17:25; Jas. 1:17).

You placed me among people to love, given me work to do, and beauty to enjoy — and so often I’ve failed to see any of it for what it was (Gen. 2:15; Eccl. 3:11).

There are days that slipped through my fingers, moments I called ordinary that were precious gifts (Ps. 90:12).

Forgive me, Lord, for eyes that were prone to wander (Ps. 119:18), 
for a heart preoccupied with self (Phil. 2:3–4), 
for wasting gifts by wishing for more (Phil. 4:11–12; 1 Thess. 5:18).

Teach me to believe that Your mercy is greater than my missed opportunities (Ps. 103:10–12; Lam. 3:22–23).


Cause me to redeem the time I squandered by shaping the days that remain (Eph. 5:16).

Let my wife, my sons, and all I love see in me now 
a man who loves and listens deeply,
and lives ready to meet You (1 Thess. 4:11–12; 2 Tim. 4:6–8).

You know my heart — how tightly it clings to the woman You gave me (Prov. 18:22).

The thought of her loving another after I’m gone burns inside me.

Yet I know she is first Yours, not mine (Ps. 24:1; Mal. 2:14).

Teach me to trust You with her future.

Give me peace to release what I cannot keep,

and joy in knowing You will care for her better than I ever could (1 Pet. 5:7).

Let my love for her end in blessing, not in fear.

Remind me that Your plan wiser than my heart can see (Prov. 3:5–6).

You joined our lives in Your kindness and filled our years with love (Mk. 10:9).

I thank You for every touch, every laugh, every shared burden.

The thought of leaving her behind tears at me, yet I know You will never leave her (Heb. 13:5).

If You grant her life beyond mine, care for her through Your people and Your providence (Phil. 4:19).

Should she one day find another companion, let him love You more than he loves her, and let him guard and cherish her heart better than I ever did (Eph. 5:25).

Teach me to trust You with what I can’t keep.

When fear rises — fear of death, of leaving, of being forgotten — remind me that I was never meant to hold this life forever (Heb. 9:27; Ps. 39:4–5).

You numbered my days before one of them came to be (Ps. 139:16).

When my mind worries and imagines losses that haven’t yet come,
 silence the anxiety, jealousy, and self-pity that feed them (Phil. 4:6–7; Jas. 3:14–17).

Show me that love is safest when it rests in You (1 Jn. 4:18–19).

I confess the pride that makes me think I can keep what was only ever Yours (1 Cor. 4:7).

My wife, my children, my work, my health — they are gifts, not possessions (Ps. 24:1; Jas. 1:17).

Thank You for entrusting them to me for a time (1 Tim. 1:12).
 If You call me to let them go, help me to bless Your name (Job 1:21),
 believing that You love them more than I ever could (Jn. 3:16; Rom. 8:32)
 and that Your hands will hold them when mine cannot (Deut. 33:27; Jn. 10:28–29).

Strip from me the illusion of control (Prov. 19:21).

And when I can’t make sense of pain, help me to remember that the answer is not found in understanding but in trust (Prov. 3:5–6).

Give me the courage of Christ to say “Not My will, but Yours, be done.” (Lk. 22:42) 
Let my sorrow look upward, not inward (Ps. 42:5);
 let my grief glorify You rather than feed itself (1 Pet. 4:19).

Lord, I confess the ache for more time — one more sunrise, one more laugh, one more ordinary day (Phil. 1:23–24).


But teach me to see that I what I have is more than I deserve (Gen. 32:10; 1 Tim. 1:14),
and what awaits is far better still (Phil. 3:20–21).


Turn longing into gratitude and restlessness into worship (Heb. 12:28).

When my heart says, “Just one more,”
remind me that You are the More I was made for (Ps. 73:25–26).

Help me to love my family not as idols to possess, but as reflections of Your goodness (Jas. 1:17; Eph. 5:25).

Let my life preach the gospel my lips have spoken: 
that You are trustworthy in life, in loss, and in death (2 Tim. 1:12; Rom. 14:8).

Every tear I shed for those I love will be gathered by You (Ps. 56:8),

and every joy I’ve ever known will be fulfilled in Your presence (Ps. 16:11).

So teach me to number my days that I may present to You a heart of wisdom (Ps. 90:12).

Let my heart be grateful (1 Thess. 5:18),
 my obedience sincere (Lk. 9:23),
 and Heaven my hope (1 Pet. 1:3–4).


When my final day comes, 
let it find me grateful, not guilty (Rom. 8:1), not afraid (1 Thess. 5:6, 10),
 and ready to step from this fleeting life into Your arms forever (Deut. 33:27; 2 Cor. 5:8).

Thank you for Christ, who conquered death, and makes redemption possible.