In days gone by my Bible was to me a pane of purest glass unmarred; a glimpse into the mind of God unveiled - so high, so far. Majestic and exalted, far-flung eternity, I could as well have reached its awesome mores as touch a star.

With time and growth more grace it did impart. Within I find most often now a friend familiar, a kinsman near. (And like any good friend, one of a kind, unique and dear.)

This friend to me comes gifts a-bearing: the saints of old. Their slumbering thoughts arise, are given voice, when simple marks on paper meet my eyes.

Treasures and wisdom I discover cached within its pages, and in it's bosom truth descending down the ages.

O book! Whether dazzling, lofty, exalted, and grand - or imminent, intimate, close at hand:

I know I can trust that you are God's true word. In times of grief or trial you do with strength me gird,

Or will unvarnished to me speak resounding, Or tender as a mother whisper love abounding.

In severity my friend, the Word, can cut: sharp as any twin-edged sword: but clean the cut and kind: the wound shall knit, bring healing, healing from the Lord.

Thank you, Oh Lord, for my friend, my Bible.