Skip to main content

All that is gold...




All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes, a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king

The poem above was written by J.R.R Tolkien for his novel, the Lord of the Rings. The quote "All that glitters is not gold" is a more familiar version (taken from Shakespeare) but it relays a different truth to what this poem means. The latter calls for a discernment between real quality and what is fake in the simplest of translations, but Tolkien wants us to see far beyond the surface, and beyond the present situation.

All that is gold does not glitter;
Not all those who wander are lost

(I am learning even more to look past the shell of the body and to see the treasure of the soul, I am learning that the one who stumbles or falls can rise again)

The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost

(It takes time to grow the deepest roots that last forever; deep roots do not wither because not even the coldest act of cruelty can damage it)

From the ashes, a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring
(God can bring what was dead back to life)

Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king

(There is hope for restoration, what was lost shall be returned)

Don't write anyone off. God has given all of us gifts and some may seem to be on display more than others. But all that God gives is good (James 1:17). And if you feel like you have lost what you have been given, God does not hold anything good from His children who walk uprightly (Psalm 84:11; Matthew 7:11).

Stay encouraged,

FeyVored
         

                                                                                                                         Photo credit: Photos by FeyVored













Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Prologue- Memoirs of A Skilled Hunter

Dawn was drawing close. The gentle breeze came as a consolation, symphatising with the wild for bearing with the downpour that befell the night. This time, the predator walked along an unusual path, the rays of sun bouncing off the shy green of wet leaves providing a source of illumination to its glowing eyes. It had spotted prey and now it was calculating the next move... I hadn't seen her in ages. I watched intently as she made her way towards me, her hips swinging graciously from side-to-side, her movement emphasized by the frills on her flowery gown, accentuating her hourglass figure. It's been 10 years since I last saw her and it seemed every part of her body, visible to my eyes, had been renovated in heaven time and time again. She had become much more attractive, she was beautiful. The predator studied its prey. Well-hidden by the shadows cast by the tall fruitless trees, it was being careful. Avoiding every broken b...

Uni: Me, Mini-me.

Today is Thursday. I'm dreading the night mainly because of the aftermath- a very messy kitchen, quite smelly corridors and grumpy cleaners. My first semester of Uni, I must say, wasn't at all what I had anticipated. I remember coaching myself mentally, preparing for the hard times to come, having an escape plan in case of a metaphoric fire and a Plan B if that didn’t work. Anyway, as it happened, my plan B wasn't well premeditated, lacking enough detail to guide me through smoky situations. All it had inscribed on it was “RUN”. Thursday nights are Mercy Nights- when students get free entry into an over-hyped nightclub. As that isn’t my cup of tea, I tend to stay indoors, watching a movie or trying to catch up with work- the latter being more frequent. The reason I dread these nights is because my flatmates have a pre-party, a chaotic one, where over 10 people squeeze into our kitchen, blast the music through the roof and scream at the top of their lungs in chants for ...

SimPerfection

Simulated Perfection. A little boy kicked his red mud-stained ball towards me. A little too high the kick was, as the ball bounced off my right knee, leaving a stain that was conspicuous. He ran up to me giggling, a very boisterous one, like he had no clue what he had done. He pointed to the ball, still inattentive to the frown that had formed on my face, which had on it clear signs of tiredness. Before he could say anything, I picked him up and spun him around, his little feet hanging high, drawing wide circles in space. "Mummy, Mummy!" The little boy's older sister ran out of the house to give me a big hug. I dropped him on the ground and squeezed them both tight in a warm embrace. I had missed them and it was obvious that they had eagerly awaited my arrival. Joseph, my 4 year old boy, gave me a slightly wet kiss on my cheek and Deborah, a very smart 7 year old, wasn't slow in noticing the stain on my knee. I exp...