Weakest Praise

At first glance, it is a dark cloud consuming the horizon. Darker than the night, devouring the day. The storm rushes on destroying peace, shanging hope, raping truth, slaying life. 

The darkness is not clouds, not dust or electricity. Demons, demonic forces traveling the earth. Slithering into the mind, controlling the body, their power travels forth until they have traveled through the Galaxy, blotted out the sun, and made its shelter in the fiery rings of Jupiter. 

Pressing on to earth, of all the expanse, its goal presumption, such satisfaction in the blood of the soul. Dripping, bleeding, leaving waste in their path. Finding its fill in pain and destruction, marching, racing on. 

Explosions of sunlight, burning their spirit. Shrieks, scowls, flung into confusion. No weapon could stop them, no hope was left. Why does this cloud evaporate?  Why do these demons scatter?  Why does the light now shine?  Who could have defeated such a force?  Who could control their ruin?

Look on, squint your eyes. In the far distance, zoom in more. There, in the grass, playing among the flowers of the earth. A young babe. A child of eight. She sings. She softly laughs and continues her song, “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.  Little ones to Him belong, they are weak, but He is strong.”

Out of the mouth of babies and infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger. 

Glory!  Glory!  His truth is marching on!