Broken cry at Golgotha.
Torn curtain;
a Roman spear in the last sacrifice, in the hope of Abraham.
His left hand and right are outstretched.
The fingers of the Godhead reach out to clothe me.
I cannot grasp this kind of love.
"Let the little children come unto me."
There are veins starting, wrinkles & sunspots - I'm not a little child anymore. Remember not the sins of my youth... His love is deep enough to swallow the past? My past?
I worship.
"Come, you have have no money, come buy milk and bread."
That statement is ludicrous, a fantastic offer...and then I look around, at all the grubby children, naked & starving.
"Lord, where will we find food for so many?" He replies. But not with words only.
With action.
Three days.
Darkness.
Decay.
Death.
Myrhh and aloe and spices could not conceal it.
Death.
Welfare and education cannot cure it.
I do not have to grasp this love. I just have to hold my cup steady
long enough for it to pour down
and overflow
into the streets.
My street. Your street. His love is a river; the water and the blood flow from wounds. He bleeds for them.
(For us.)
Christ has taken hold of me; I am no longer free/
/Sin the master is no more. I'm done with slavery.
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