Saeed Basanda in the Palace of Justice - photo taken with his permission

A Visit to Saeed Basanda at Kgoši Mampuru Correctional Centre

On Thursday morning, I went to visit Saeed Basanda at Kgoši Mampuru Correctional Centre in Pretoria it was my second visit to him, and things went much better. He was happy to see me, and I think the reason was that I had given him a Bible in Arabic to read.

I gave Arabic Bibles to him and accused number two in the trial court at the Palace of Justice in Pretoria. The female police sergeant carried out her duties as guardian of the integrity of the court and the safety of the prisoners very thoroughly and meticulously. What did she do? She took each Bible and leafed through it, from back to front, and from front to back, looking for concealed material. She then shook it, trying to dislodge anything that might have been hidden inside. She found nothing because I had hidden nothing. I had no reason to do such a thing. She then handed an Arabic Bible to each of them.

They were overwhelmed with surprise and joy.

My first visit took Saeed completely by surprise, and he did not know what had hit him. On the many occasions I had seen him in court, from the Cullinan Magistrate's Court to the High Court in Pretoria [the Palace of Justice], I had not exchanged a single word with him. I had not thought it necessary.

He is accused number one in the case involving the murders of the three Coptic Church monks in Cullinan. The murders took place on or about 12 March 2024, when three Egyptian Coptic Orthodox monks were murdered at the Monastery of Saint Mark the Apostle and Saint Samuel the Confessor in Cullinan, east of Pretoria, South Africa. The Victims were:

·       Father Hegumen Takla el-Samuely

·       Father Yostos Ava Markos and

·       Father Mina Ava Markos

All three monks were found dead with stab wounds. A fourth person survived after being struck with an iron rod. The motive is unclear. The two suspects, now accused number one and accused number two, are Egyptian citizens.

During one of the court adjournments, I was standing next to a priest who was talking to Saeed. Once again, I did not say anything to him.

While speaking to the priest, Saeed told him how lonely he was. Since the incident, they had been arrested and he had had no contact whatsoever with his family or friends in Egypt. They knew nothing about what had happened to him, and he had no idea what had happened to them in the meantime.

While he was talking to the priest and telling him all this, I decided that I would go and visit him. In the meantime, I was not saying a word to him.

That was when I visited him for the first time.

Saeed Basanda handwritten letter he gave to me for the Bishop

When he first saw me, he was happy, but he soon became deeply suspicious of me. What were the reasons me visiting him out of the blue?

Was I perhaps a spy? Had the State Advocate sent me? Had the lawyer representing accused number two sent me? Had the investigating police officer sent me? Had the Coptic Church perhaps sent me?

No. A thousand times, no! Nobody had sent me.

When I made that decision in court, I told nobody about it.

Afterwards, I thought about the fact that Jesus Christ, the Son of the Living God, had something to say about visiting people in prison. But what exactly did He say? What is written in Scripture?

Matthew 25, verses 31 to 46.

“31 When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:

32 and before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divided his sheep from the goats:

33 and he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.

34 Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:

35 for I was hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:

36 naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

37 Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

38 When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?

39 Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

40 And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

41 Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:

42 for I was an hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:

43 I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

44 Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?

45 Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.

46 And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.” [emphasis added]

Now, you need to tread very carefully when you read this, because it could have serious implications for your future. Christ nowhere explicitly commands me, as His disciple, to visit sick people. Nor does He explicitly command me, as His disciple, to visit prisoners.

It seems to me that He has put into effect the implicit expectation underlying His command that we should love our fellow human beings: He expects us to demonstrate our humanity by visiting the sick. He expects us to visit prisoners.

It really does not matter why they are behind bars.

It does not matter whether they have already been convicted.

The circumstances that led to their imprisonment are irrelevant. The expectation is that you visit them.

Eish!! I am trapped, and I am personally guilty.

Eish!! This is not comfortable.

This man is a human being, and he longs for his family, far away in Egypt. He struggles to speak English.

When I saw him for the second time the other day, it was a different story.

He asked me to buy soap and soft drinks for him from the prison shop.

Soap? He wants to wash himself. Hygiene? I am now concerned about his personal hygiene.

I had to make the additional effort of walking to the shop to buy the items, then walking back to give them to him. They were then examined again, and even the till receipt was carefully scrutinised to ensure that the items had indeed just been purchased from the prison shop.

During the proceedings in the High Court, the official post-mortem report for each victim was submitted. These reports showed that the three monks had sustained a combined total of 110 stab wounds.

The exact number of stab wounds inflicted on each person was as follows:

·       Father/Hegumen Takla el-Samuely: 26 stab wounds to the chest.

·       Father Mina Ava Markos: 37 stab wounds.

·       Father Yostos Ava Markos: 47 stab wounds.

The State prosecutor described the attack in court as an absolute case of "overkill" because of the extreme violence used. The violence was so severe that the blades of two meat knives broke off at the handles.

When I read that the state pathologists had documented a combined total of 110 stab wounds, there can be no doubt that this was a case of murder.

The case has now reached the point where both the State and the Defence have closed their cases. On 10 November 2026, the lawyers are due to present their closing arguments to the Honourable Judge.

Are they guilty as charged? Or not guilty?

Has the State proved its case against the two accused, or has it failed to do so? I am referring here only to the charges relating to the three murders. I am not referring to any other charges against the two accused.

Murder in a Monastery?

This made me think of Umberto Eco's seminal work, IN THE NAME OF THE ROSE, which I read in Dutch many years ago.

Murders in a monastery?

Horrific. Unthinkable.

Who does such a thing?

Where does the idea of committing murder in a monastery even come from?

Three monks in a single night?

Horrifying.

It was major news when the murders came to light in 2024. But what is happening now, in the second half of 2026, almost three years after the murders? Do you think hundreds of people are attending the court proceedings?

Think again.

That is certainly not the case.

Barely ten people attend on a consistent basis.

I knew Father Takla personally, and it was an almost unbearable shock to me when I heard of his gruesome slaughter.

Now, I wait anxiously to hear what the lawyers will argue on 10 November 2026.

After that, we must wait for the learned judge to prepare his judgment and deliver it on whatever date he may determine.

I ask everyone who reads this account to reflect seriously on this case—not merely to give it a passing thought, but to engage in deep and serious reflection—and then to pray about it.

I believe that those involved in the determination of this case need wisdom and discernment.

Please write to me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za   

 

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WASHING THE DISHES, UNPACKING IT, PUT AWAY AND READING THE SCRIPTURES?

 

A familiar site: dishwasher full of stuff

The dishes are washed. They are packed into the dishwasher [I am not the one who does the loading]. The machine is switched on [I am not the one who switches it on], and it gets going. When the washing cycle is finished, my task begins: to unload the dishes and put them away. That is when I become important, because then I have to take things further.

As I work, I am grateful that the seven openings in my body are functioning. Being occupied in this way makes me grateful for my cognitive abilities, which enable me to deal with our dishes. I am cognitively capable of identifying every item:

• every teaspoon;
• every spoon;
• knives;
• forks;
• small plates;
• dinner plates;
• teacups;
• large coffee mugs from which we drink our coffee or tea;
• little milk jugs.

Every item.

Every single item, individually.

I recognise it.

I know precisely where and how I am going to put it away.

I know every step I need to take to reach the exact place where I must put each item, in its own particular place.

This is undeniable evidence of the control I have over my mind.

In the same way, I exercise control over my wrestling with the Scriptures. And over my reading of Ellen G. White's book The Great Controversy.

I accept all of this as wisdom and insight that I have received.

The thoughts that Paul cherished for the believers in Laodicea, which he expressed here in Colossians 2:2–3, and are applicable to my own intellectual abilities:

“… that they may attain to all the riches of full assurance of understanding, to the knowledge of God's mystery, which is Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”

Do I see Christ in my dishes?

Outrageous and ridiculous!

No.

He dwells within me through His Holy Spirit; He is aware of every breath I inhale and exhale. He knows precisely what I am doing—He is aware of my dishes and of my reading Scriptures, too.

Today, I had an incredible conversation with a very kosher Jewish man. He is familiar with the concept of reading the Scriptures over and over and over again. Their depth eludes you, then gradually reveal itself in small measure, drawing you further inside.

It is the same as with the dishes: every day, they have to be loaded into the machine; they have to be washed; they have to be unloaded and put away.

And so it is with the Scriptures: every day, do your part and wait for the Spirit of God to guide you and speak to you.

I hope that you have read your Scriptures today. And that you will read them again tomorrow, and the day after that.

Read 1 Corinthians 15—all 58 verses. Then read it again. And keep on doing so.

Write to me at: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

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SKOOLSKOENE EN NUWE EIKEBOOMBLARE EN NUWE SEISOEN A NEW SEASON

 

New season 2026 leaves on my homegrown Franschhoek Acorns. 

Today I feel like a schoolboy with a new pair of school shoes. And then I also have brand-new autumn leaves on my homegrown Franschhoek oak trees to be happy about. There is brand-new growth in our garden on all my plants: I have taken a particularly large number of photographs of it and, in time, I will share them with you, my readers, so that you too can rejoice.

My wife and I are experiencing a new season, while we are in our 76th year on earth.

Do you still remember what new school shoes smell like?

How tightly they press around your feet and hold them: so snug and secure.

Shiny black.

Not a speck of dust to spoil them.

They must not get dirty, because they cost a lot of money and money is scarce.

You don't get new school shoes for every little thing.

No, they are only for a very special occasion.

Then you go with your parents and two sisters to the shoe shop, the shop where you buy school supplies. You are tiny and very young: first school age. All the grown-ups tower around you. Your two sisters are completely silent, standing and looking around with wide eyes. We don't know shops. We hardly ever go into them, especially not as a family—it is an exceptional occasion. Otherwise, my mother goes alone because Dad is working. He has to earn money.

First, they measure your feet. When I think about it now: surely that experienced salesman would, by then, have known the sizes of children's feet by heart. But he measures and presses here and presses there. It feels so good. Mum sits right beside you. Dad sits on your left side. Your sisters? Oh dear, I don't really remember where they were at that moment—it was my feet and my shoes, after all.

Then he brings the shoes in a brand-new cardboard box. He says he “went to fetch them from the back.” I was too small to know where “the back” was. Did it really matter where “the back” was? No—it was enough that I was getting new school shoes.

Then, it fits.

I walk out of the shop with the new shoes on my feet.

Well, well, Dad must surely have paid for them—I don't really know what happened there.

This story has everything to do with 1 September 2026, as I sit here writing. It has everything to do with my Franschhoek oak trees. And me and my wife’s new season.

New buds on the stems, since I started writing this post, these leaves opened up.

In April 2023, I collected about 32 acorns from a guest farm in Franschhoek, beside the river and next to the swimming pool. I brought the acorns back to Rivonia and planted them. Then they came up, and they are now just over three years old. There were also some twin trees that died.

Why did I refer in my heading to a new season for my wife and me? It is not only spring in nature; it is spring in our lives.

We were recently subjected to particularly cruel oral attacks. We responded to it.

Then, this morning [4 September 2026], I discovered and experienced the new season in our lives with striking clarity: winter is beginning to pass, the earth has shifted on its axis, the season has turned—also for my wife and me.

New growth; new life in Christ Jesus.

Brand new leaves on my trees for a brand new season

We are experiencing the protection and favour of our Heavenly Father, through His Son, Jesus Christ, and God the Holy Spirit. Regardless of the cruel verbal attacks, we have survived them and are experiencing the favour of our Father.

Therefore, in the face of the attacks, I can cry out, firmly and clearly:

SOLI DEO GLORIA.

If you have a story of a new season in your life, please write me at:

neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

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GLENCOE BAOBAB TREE

 

Can you see the matchbox on the trunk?

We went in search of this tree: we made our own long weekend of it. I did a bit of reading about champion trees of cities and countries. A fascinating subject. Glencoe — not Glencoe in Natal; this is the Glencoe tree near Hoedspruit.

At one stage it was the champion tree of our country, South Africa, and then the old fellow fell over — and someone wrote that it was all over and that it was no longer worth visiting. It is indeed worth the effort to find and see the tree. But in our modern internet world, it is no longer much of a search — you sit in the comfort of your own home, contact the owners, and they send you the so-called “pin”, and there you are, jumping into your car and driving there at a respectable speed.

Do go without a tour guide, because there are tour guides who do not know where the tree is, even though they are standing only a few paces away — and then they see another baobab. Look at it. Sigh and click their tongues. Look. Take a bunch of selfies, jump back into their tour vehicles and move on to the next item on their journey through the TO-DO list for the day.

You know the TO-DO list, don’t you? Every morning you get up and look for your TO-DO list and start working at it like a madman because you are chasing “experiences” — that is what this mad rush is called: experiences for you and your little children. The more, the better. The more superficial, the more important, because then you can tick it off on your TO-DO list; also lovingly referred to as MY BUCKETLIST. Your list does not get any shorter because your other friends keep urging you to chase after even more things. Life is all too short and the BUCKET LIST is growing.

I have a simple concept in my head about this merry-go-round and this mad chase after the winds of change. People shout: “You are surely inseparably part of this rat race. Aren’t you?” You know, I have not been part of this silly game for so many years now that I no longer feel bad about it. Why not? As I said, I am not part of any rat race. The reason is very simple: I AM NOT A RAT. I was created in the image of Almighty God and not in the image of a rat — rats get rat poison.

I am not a rat.

It is abundantly clear that my wife and I are not rats

So, my wife and I quietly drove at a maximum of 100 kilometres per hour north from our home in Rivonia to Hoedspruit to go and look at the tree.

We spent the night in Middelburg, Mpumalanga, and chatted with family. One of my nieces asked where we were going, and her sister answered: “He is going to look at a tree.” Indeed. That is the purpose: to go and look at a tree.

[This reminds me of the time I went to Britain in 1975 to look at specific pieces of furniture and to look at a rare book: the first-day edition of William Shakespeare’s work; it was not available; I found a first-day publication of THE CANTERBURY TALES, written by Geoffrey Chaucer between 1387 and 1400.]

That afternoon I went for a walk around the guesthouse and looked at a crumpled-looking tree. Behind the generic concrete fence, a woman with curlers in her hair stood shouting at me: “Sir, do you have a problem?”

I thought to myself that, even if I did have a problem, I was not going to discuss it with her.

So, I answered her: “Madam, I am looking at the tree on the pavement.”

Then I simply walked off.

Early the next morning, just after breakfast, we set off on our way to the Tree.

We slept in the tented camp. Needless to say, it is not the standard of our home, but that was not what we had gone there for either.

The owner received us as though we had known one another for years — and pointed us in the general direction of their pride: that way.

 

The seedpod

And she gave me a seed pod, with compliments from her husband.

For the next five days I probably walked around four or five times every day to go and greet this old giant. My cell phone camera worked overtime.

I had the idea of using a matchbox to provide a sense of scale — the moment I put it against the trunk, at that very moment I felt downright silly. Surely this was the most grotesque piece of visual imagery I could possibly have thought of.

As I took the photographs, a thought seemed to hit me over the head: get something else for scale, get something else for scale.

No! This is not right.

Yet I left it, and carried on taking photographs. These are the most bizarre photographs yet — and I discovered that bizarre imagery tells a story far better than I can do with words.

The age of the tree was analysed using carbon dating, and the scientific finding is that it is between 1,850 and 2,000 years old — the article was published in 2012. Here is the link to the article: Scientific article on the Glencoe baobab https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0168583X1200273X

The old tree broke in 2009.

Wilma Stockenström wrote DIE KREMETARTEKSPEDISIE, and J. M. Coetzee translated it as THE BAOBAB EXPEDITION. This book was the first item I packed for our expedition. And I introduced this Old Giant to Wilma’s book.

That Old Giant messes with one’s head — now I am very proud of my photographs because I have captured the true image of this enormous old beast.

Do have a look at my gallery of photographs.

Please write me your story and send it to neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

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BRING AND TELL AT GENEALOGY some lessons my late dad taught me

 

My yellow-wood plate I turned many years ago.

Bring and tell us about your past.

The things you make.

The things you look at.

The things you have acquired, no matter from whom or when.

If you cannot remember from whom, that does not matter either.

Perhaps you made some of these things yourself. Bring them and tell us about them, because they are part of who you are and where you are going.

My interaction with tools comes a long way of many years. My late father was right-handed. I left-handed. And that in itself caused stresses between us. He couldn’t teach me. And me was an unwanted observer – so it seemed to me. Later years, he apologised to me about it; my reaction was immediate and truthful: the best lesson I learned from being in your presence was to observe: tools are made for a purpose: USE IT. And so I did.

Bring it.

Tell the story.

That was at our June 2026 gathering.

One person spoke about the medals and awards he received during his army days. He brought his own medals, as well as those of his late father, and we looked at them. Everything was beautifully framed and exceptionally well cared for.

Another chap displayed a few very old Bibles and, with nostalgia in his voice, told us about them. One Bible had, in those days, been sent to South Africa from the North, where WWII was raging; its two outer covers were made of olive wood. Once again, these items had been exceptionally well preserved.

Another brought along his mother's opera glasses. I was amazed at the way he took them out of their case — gently, almost as if his mother were watching him.

One of my friends has an old, dusty lathe that has been well used and that he still uses regularly. It had previously belonged to someone else; he bought it somewhere for fairly little money. An old, well-used lathe in new, eager hands can work wonders. To him, it is a beloved working tool.

For one of his granddaughters' weddings, he turned a whole lot of candleholders from offcuts of pine. It was a special request that Grandpa should make them for her. There was even one specifically earmarked for the main table: Grandpa's handiwork.

What did I bring?

I brought some of my tools.

Today I have very few tools because I sold most of them when I moved from Morningside to Rivonia.

Geelhout houtskyf 13 December 1998

Before I tell you about the little bit of tooling I still have, I want to tell you about my Knysna yellowwood platter.

I completed it on 13 December 1998. Since then, it has stood in a place of honour in our home, on our sideboard.

The years have been kind to this platter.

The patina has developed into such a deep yellow — the outstanding characteristic of yellowwood. When it first came off the lathe all those years ago, it was very light and looked more white than yellow. Oxidation from exposure to the air, together with all the hands that have dusted it over the years, has turned it a deep yellow.

My kitchen knife with the shortened blade

A knife — a kitchen knife: the kind you use every day in the kitchen, the kind you use at the table when you sit down for dinner. That old-fashioned knife with a handle made of that light yellow-white-beige sort of material.

You find them at flea markets and in other shops that sell off old odds and ends.

But this knife is a kitchen knife with a difference.

Somewhere along its life's journey in a kitchen, the original knife suffered a blow: the blade cracked. And so it migrated to my garage.

I needed something like an all-purpose utility item in the garage, and this old fellow looked like a very suitable candidate. You know the utility-kind of philosophy: that everything, should be usable.

Then the tip broke off. I filed it roughly round with my electric grinder.

It is the most versatile piece of equipment in my garage: scraping dirt from under fingernails, tightening little screws, scraping clean empty plastic yoghurt containers, scraping dried paint off screwdrivers — man, think of something and you can probably use this tool for it.

My contraption from my friend

When I displayed it at our genealogists' Bring and Tell gathering, the men's tongues really got going, and there was quite a buzz around it.

Why did he give it to me? I don't know exactly why he gave it to me.

I had given him a gift: a plaster cast of the front end of a pair of pliers. He gave me a contraption.

Here another story is beginning to emerge.

When we moved house about four or five years ago, I saw these pliers lying around. And I wondered where they had come from. The more I looked at the thing, the less I liked it.

Until one day I picked it up and examined it properly.

Now there is a competition between these pliers and that knife: which of the two is the most versatile and useful?

My wood chisel

This wood chisel, too, developed a life of its own in my hands.

Somewhere — I think I remember buying it in a second-hand pawn shop — I came across it. The handle was missing.

Well, that was not a problem.

The handle was gone, and it didn't matter.

At home I took a piece of scrap oak and turned a handle.

The oak, in turn, came from a scrap piece that had come out of a factory making oak furniture.

I also fitted two bronze metal ferrules over the ends for protection.

Almost as versatile as that knife and my pliers.

Next, I will write something about the pieces of equipment I cast in plaster.

What do you have?

Somewhere, there is something in your house or in your garage that has a story.

Write that story for me and send it to me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za.

Send some photographs along as well.

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Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

On my pavement

Some time ago, one day while I was standing on the pavement outside our house working among the plants, something happened to me. It was such an unusual experience that it immediately caught my attention. I do not often listen to music, and I cannot sing, although I very much enjoy singing in our church on Sundays. I suppose that, with our gifted organist, my off-key voice disappears among all the other voices. I enjoy it.

But on that particular day — while I was working among the plants on the pavement—I began to sing, or perhaps merely hum, the hymn Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah. Then the words would disappear. Suddenly a few words would come back. No—I do not know the lyrics of the hymn at all. But that day! What was happening?

I carried on working with the plants. I took the long new shoots of the wisteria and the bougainvillea and wove them back among the older branches. My gardener also knows that he is not allowed to cut off these shoots; I will tell him very specifically when it may be pruned. The golden rule is to tie it back, because then it forms a wonderfully thick layer of branches and leaves.

And all the while the hymn kept turning over in my mind.

I hummed it and quietly murmured the words whenever they came to me. Otherwise, since I did not know the lyrics, I simply continued humming.

The hymn remained in my head. And on my lips. No — I did not get goosebumps or cold shivers. It was simply a strange occurrence taking place within me.

Can I remember the exact day on which it happened? I asked ChatGPT for the lyrics afterwards, and the date of that conversation was Saturday, 9 November 2024. It was an ordinary sunny day, and I was wearing my sunhat to protect my bald head from the harsh sunlight. No — I was not delirious or in some kind of trance.

According to the brief notes in my diary, I was alone at home that day.

Annemarié had gone to a masterclass for botanical artists.

Our gardener was not working that day.

In the meantime, I restored the seat of a small, half-sized Tulbagh chair that I had made years ago. The woven seat had broken, and I replaced it. The chair was in the garage while I waited for the wood glue to dry. So, it is clear that I was under no stress, nor was I rushed in any way.

My half-size Tulbach chair

I was calm.

Alone.

Standing on the pavement, weaving the branches and leaves back into place.

Was there anything special about that day? Certainly not.

Was there anything at all that might have triggered these words to surface? No, not that I can remember. Remember, it was not the complete hymn—only brief fragments of it. And, of course, the melody.

When I had finished working, I picked up my gardening gloves and my pruning shears and went inside for a cup of tea. Then the melody disappeared. Only the memory of the experience remained, gently nudging me and directing my thoughts throughout the rest of the day.

It was the very first time in my entire life that anything like this had ever happened to me.

To deepen the mystery even further, I do not attend an English-speaking church for regular worship. We do occasionally sing English hymns in church, but they are usually those short, repetitive charismatic choruses that are sung over and over and over again, almost mechanically.

I cannot even remember where or when I last heard Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah. At a concert? No—we seldom attend concerts. Welsh? No—that would be completely mistaken. I did not even know that the hymn had originally been written in Welsh by William Williams in 1745 under the title Arglwydd, arwain trwy'r anialwch.

Here is a link to the song: https://youtu.be/1jkzdhpbLiw?si=AZj_aYb97Mi7IttF

Here are the words:

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but Thou art mighty;

Hold me with Thy powerful hand.

Bread of heaven, Bread of heaven,

Feed me till I want no more;

Feed me till I want no more.

 

Open now the crystal fountain,

Whence the healing stream doth flow;

Let the fire and cloudy pillar

Lead me all my journey through.

Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,

Be Thou still my strength and shield;

Be Thou still my strength and shield.

 

When I tread the verge of Jordan,

Bid my anxious fears subside;

Death of death, and hell's destruction,

Land me safe on Canaan's side.

Songs of praises, songs of praises,

I will ever give to Thee;

I will ever give to Thee.

 

Please write me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

 

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