“What shall we say then? Shall we continue in sin, that grace may abound?“
— Romans 6:1 KJV
Reflection on Today's Verse
The human loophole instinct—if grace covers sin, why not keep sinning and let grace show off? It’s like asking, “Since seatbelts save lives, should we drive recklessly so they can prove their worth?”
Paul’s not scolding us here. He’s snapping us awake. Grace isn’t a license to keep wrecking ourselves. It’s the rescue that pulled us out of the wreckage. The very idea of staying in sin to highlight grace completely misses the point: we’re not who we used to be.
God’s grace didn’t just forgive the past—it started a transformation. We’re not sin’s tenants anymore. We’ve moved out. And grace isn’t the doormat; it’s the key to a new home.
Sin doesn’t get to boss us around like it used to. Grace doesn’t just clean the mess—it breaks the chain.
Personal Prayer
Father, sometimes I forget what You’ve really saved me from. I treat grace like a free pass when it’s really a miracle—costly, fierce, and holy. Forgive me for the times I’ve taken advantage of Your kindness instead of honoring it.
I don’t want to keep crawling back to the same chains You broke. I want to live like someone who’s been set free. Remind me that grace isn’t my excuse—it’s my new identity.
Teach my heart to love what’s good, to turn from what drains me, and to walk like someone alive with Your Spirit. Let my life be the thank You my words can’t say. Amen.
Author
Alona Smith writes like she sketches—quick strokes, bold colors, no eraser. She ran a small-town art studio before VerseForTheDay invited her to swap charcoal for chapters, yet paint still flecks her keyboard. Dawn finds her barefoot on the porch, swirling watercolors across a travel Bible, letting sunrise seep into the margins. Neighbors wave as she bikes to the farmers’ market, basket rattling with sunflowers and Psalms scribbled on kraft-paper price tags.Alona trusts that Scripture behaves like clay: press your palms in, and a vessel appears where empty air once lived. Afternoon workshops with foster teens prove the point; they mold hope into coffee mugs, then watch steam carry it forward.Diplomas? Only framed sketches of hands lifted in worship. Awards? A dog-eared gratitude list taped to her fridge. Open her reflections when cynicism scratches—she’ll slide a brush into your grip and show you light hiding in the smear of everyday color.