It's a peculiar thing.
Somehow, the song that God sang over me, long ago on the old fallows of eternity, the song that was woven into my heart and leaks out even now as I live and move and breathe, that song is the Singer's. He was the Singer. And now I am the Singer.
Our wills, our minds, our souls are ours, somehow; we are the owner's of them, though they once came from our Father. Somehow He has given us ownership of them, that we might decide what to do with them, how to use such a gift as something to call our own. "He made our wills our own," Lewis says, "In such a way that we can freely offer it back to Him."
What does it mean to think for oneself, truly, to step
outside and look up? Perhaps we have been living inside for a long
time.
I wonder now... If each man were to really sing His own song; that is, to create and love and talk as if there were no normalcy or standard of thought to live up to, would that song tear the very fabric of the natural? I mean, if we were to know God first and not second or third, to let all thoughts flow from the Truthful Source and not from a third-party, if we were to spend our lives tasting the flavor of real Love and not making ourselves full eating cardboard, would the world around us really remain unchanged?
Hmmm.
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