Cursed Comfort, Cursed Contentment.
As a subtle garden snake, carnal comfort has slithered in and deceived us into forsaking the heavenly treasure for worthless trinkets. Cursed comfort, you have eased the sting of guilt. A sting so sweet. A sting that's drives to our knees in holy repentance. Cursed comfort has numbed our conscience, a conscience of unmeasurable value. The birthing place of the deep cry for mercy and deliverance. Cursed comfort has redirected our treasures to this moth corrupted earth. Cursed comfort, you have blinded our eyes from the true treasure, the glory of the nail scarred hands, and deceived us into devaluing Him to 30 pieces of silver.
Where are the days of Luther, Wesley, Finney, Edwards, Brainard, and Bounds. The holy unrest of the Monravians, of which one third were missionaries. Where are the days of Seymor, Parham and Bartleman, where is that holy discontent that drove them to long hours of weeping on there knees until entire nations and generations were transformed by the power of God.