Oh, weary heart, lost in the grind, look up to the dawn of God’s grace! It’s not some distant rule or cold command—it’s a river, gentle and endless, flowing through the mess of your days. Like sunlight brushing the hills at morning, it finds you not because you’ve earned it, but because you need it. Grace is the Father’s hand, reaching down to lift a child too weak to climb; it’s the whisper in your chaos, saying, “You are Mine.” In every stumble, every quiet grief, it surrounds you, unearned, unwavering—a love that only asks you to accept it. Oh, soul, rest in this truth: God’s grace is your home, and it will never let you go. Come home.
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