Words don’t usually escape my hands but this morning they have left.
I think about another’s hands as I stand gazing into the green. His hands. The ones that should be mine. My heart stumbles into a reality that is deeper than real memory. It’s as if I was there when the three wood beams stood tall. One Savior and a crowd. A lamb for all that would profess:
He is Christ. He is Risen. He is Blessed.
The morning clips along at it’s usual pace. Yet, the fog that gathers each night is pierced with memory. I was not there, but my sins were. I was not there but my burdens were. I was not there but my death died. I was not alive but I was given new life. Yes. This is the reality. This is the truth that makes all things bright and full of hope.
We are forgetters. Glorious wonder wakes us up. It pulls our eyes open and says,
Do you remember the cup?
The one you should have bore?
It’s done. It’s finished.
Rejoice! He is risen and lives.
He invites and brings near.
Don’t forget, my child, that I bought you here:
Where the nails pierced deep and the blood overflowed.
Don’t forget, my child, that I ransomed you here:
Where the stone is rolled away along with all fear.
Explore and share my Word.
I was broken but made whole.
Have you ever been more stirred?