I pick up the rubble of the stones of my life. In my own strength, I struggle to build You an altar. Only to have the stones fall down once again. Like a child trying to stack blocks for the first time. Unlike a child stacking, my ability never seems to improve. Big stones first, then flat, wide at the bottom, while working my way to other stones of various shapes and sizes. This is how others do it, I think. "What am I doing wrong?" comes the thoughts.
The stones are cold as I lift them up from the frozen ground in my hands. Looking around, a realization came to mind, it wasn't one altar I was building but many. "Behold the handiwork of my hands," I spoke out loud in an apparent truth my eyes now seen. Before me lay several small piles of mismatched stones, not even whole stones but broken shards. Just laying in a pile with no organization to them at all. Each one had a name. Everyone of my sins had it's own little makeshift altar. I worshipped the things of man on these so called piles of rocks. Seeking their knowledge, their pleasure, their approval, all the while fooling myself into thinking that I was building just one not many.
Upon these altars I sacrificed to the deceptors, the angels of darkness, who careth not for my soul. All the while, I could not wrap my mind around why the stones wouldn't stack up right. Everytime I built one, God knocked it down. I started another he knocked it down again. Trying to keep me away from what I was blindly walking toward. And as a dog returns to his vomit, I returned to my altars.
Will I continue this madness? Will I put the blinders back on? Will I trust in my own strength and the wisdom of man? Only God knows that answer. All I know is that a father who doesn't chastise his son, doesn't love Him. The way He chastises me, He must love me alot. If only I would notice that any good form needs a cornerstone, the cornerstone of God's altar is Christ. In Him and Him alone does all my hope lie.
Then will I go unto the altar of God, unto God my exceeding joy