C.Mercado, Guiguinto. Day Nine. 14.8283, 120.8843
I confess that come noon, I struggled once more with a debilitating timidity. The flesh was overflowing with excuses, and though a destination was fixed in my mind, my heart lacked the will to travel that far. I did as I always do: I fell to my knees. My obedience cannot lean upon my own meager capacity to go—that well is often dry; it must rest solely upon His worthiness to be proclaimed. I pleaded with the Lord on behalf of the poor souls I was to meet, praying that if He should send this weak vessel, His Word might descend with power. And the Lord was indeed gracious. Sustained by the intercessions of the brethren—those silent partners in the labor—I preached Christ. The Word did not return void today. When the messenger is brought low, the Message is lifted high.
It was in Gethsemane that the battle was won even before Golgotha.
When I kneel and plead for the souls of the people, I am not merely seeking strength; I am laying my 'wretched flesh' upon the altar, until the fear of the cross is swallowed up in the desire to obey the Father. If the cup of duty is accepted in the secret place, the walk to the street becomes but the fulfillment of a victory already gained. I do not go out hoping to win the battle; I go out because, on my knees, the battle has already been decided.








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