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Redeeming-Love-By-Francine-Rivers

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F R A N C I N E R I V E R S

priest turned her mother away. Lord, she was sold into bondage to a man who

sounds like Satan himself. How do I convince her there are good people in the

world when everyone she has ever known used her and then condemned her for it?

Michael lifted a strand of her pale hair and rubbed it between his fingers.

He hadn’t made love to her since bringing her home. He wanted to. His

body yearned for her. But then he would remember her lifeless voice as she

said, “Duke has a thing for little girls,” and his desire evaporated.

What was she thinking all those times we were together? Was I just like all the

others, taking my pleasure at her expense?

She had always seemed so strong. And she was. Strong enough to take

unspeakable abuse and survive. Strong enough to adapt to anything. Strong

enough to lock herself away inside walls she thought would make her safe.

What choice had she then? How could she even comprehend what he

offered her now?

She was just a child, Lord. Why did you let it happen? Jesus, I don’t understand.

Why? Aren’t you supposed to protect the weak and innocent? Why didn’t

you protect her? Why didn’t you help her? Why?

How was Angel any different from Hosea’s wife, Gomer, sold to the

prophet by her own father? A child of prostitution. An adulteress. Was

Gomer ever redeemed by her husband’s love? God had redeemed Israel

countless times. Christ had redeemed the world. But what about Gomer, Lord?

What about Angel? What about my wife?

Tend my lamb.

You keep saying that, but I don’t know how. I don’t know what you mean. I’m

not a prophet, Lord. I’m a simple farmer. I’m not up to the task you’ve set for me.

My love hasn’t been enough. She’s still there in the pit, dying. I reach for her, but

she won’t take my hand. She’ll kill herself trying to earn my love when it’s hers

already.

Trust in me with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.

I’m trying, Jesus. I’m trying.

Dejected, Michael sat down on the edge of the bed. Tessie’s skirt slid off

and landed in a heap on the floor. He picked it up and looked at the threadbare

fabric. Frowning, he tossed it back on the bed. He picked up the faded

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