High tide at Point Whitehorn tonight, and a bright seaweed necklace runs along the water's edge like confetti glistening in the sun.
Incoming waves, unusually active for our inland passageway, beat a rhythm against the shore, and their retreat makes the little rocks sing a melody as they tumble and roll.
It's the song of the borderland, where long ago, God drew a line: "...He assigned to the sea its limit, so that the waters might not transgress His command..." I, too, have a song in my borderland: Incoming waves pulse with deep rhythm, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you"; their outrush rejoices with a thousand tinkling voices, "He has delivered . . . and He will deliver us. On Him we have set our hope that He will deliver us again."
© Copyright July 2017 by Robert G. Robbins