It Never Runs Out. Never. It’s still pouring down from the cross, drenching our lives as we walk around blind, parched and dry. He’s no longer on the cross but what He undertook there still speaks, still drips grace. We travel blind, believing we’re in some sort of desert when everywhere springs and streams and waterfalls gush and flow. Grace rains down in a torrent. We rush headlong into our days barely glancing at the one offering buckets of cool, refreshing grace.