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這等下流人在我右邊起來,推開我的腳,築成戰路來攻擊我。 12 On my right the tribe 30:12 The meaning of the Hebrew for this word is uncertain. attacks; they lay snares for my feet, they build their siege ramps against me.
這些無人幫助的,毀壞我的道,加增我的災。 13 They break up my road; they succeed in destroying me-- without anyone's helping them. 30:13 Or ((me. No one can help him, (they say).))
因神的大力,我的外衣污穢不堪,又如裏衣的領子將我纏住。 18 In his great power (God) becomes like clothing to me; 30:18 Hebrew; ((Septuagint (God) grasps my clothing)) he binds me like the neck of my garment.
November 12 "These were the potters, and those that dwelt among plants and hedges: there they dwelt with the king for his work." (1 Chron. 4:23) ANYWHERE and everywhere we may dwell "with the king for his work." We may be in a very unlikely and unfavorable place for this; it may be in a literal country life, with little enough to be seen of the "goings" of the King around us; it may be among the hedges of all sorts, hindrances in all directions; it may be furthermore, with our hands full of all manner of pottery for our daily task. No matter! The King who placed us "there" will come and dwell there with us; the hedges are right, or He would soon do away with them. And it does not follow that what weems to hinder our way may not be for its very protection; and as for the pottery, why, that is just exactly what He has seen fit to put into our hands, and therefore it is, for the present, "His work." -Frances Ridley Havergal. "Go back to thy garden-plot, sweetheart! Go back till the evening falls, And bind thy lilies and train thy vines, Till for thee the Master calls. "Go make thy garden fair as thou canst, Thou workest never alone; Perhaps he whose plot is next to thine Will see it and mend his own." The colored sunsets and starry heavens, the beautiful mountains and the shining seas, the fragrant woods and painted flowers, are not half so beautiful as a soul that is serving Jesus out of love, in the wear and tear of common, unpoetic life. -Faber. The most saintly spirits are often existing in those who have never distinguished themselves as authors, or left any memorial of themselves to be the theme of the world's talk; but who have led an interior angelic life, having borne their sweet blossoms unseen like the young lily in a sequestered vale on the bank of a limpid stream. -Kenelm Digby.