Turning away
It’s the middle of the night and my little niece is ferociously screaming. I’m thinking again how there are so many grown up people ferociously screaming, it’s just all muffled on the inside and called depression. As the little one misses the Garden of Eden, I’m thinking about how difficult and uncomfortable it must be for a father to hear those fierce cries.
I’m also thinking about a famous son crying out on a cross in order to bring Eden back, and what it must have done to his own father. In time, the son will dry my internal and external tears even though he didn’t have anyone to dry his own. Still, I’m sure the father was up in heaven weeping just the same.
How deep the Father’s love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only son
And make a wretch His treasure
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One,
Bring many sons to glory
Behold the Man upon a cross,
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed I hear my mocking voice,
Call out among the scoffers
Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom
Category: Musings
His major contribution to the world was not a set of aphorisms. He was born in a turdy barn, grew up in a dirty world, got baptized in a muddy river. He put his hands on the oozing wounds of lepers, he let whores brush his hair and soldiers pull it out. He went to dinner with dirtbags, both religious and irreligious. His closest friends were a collection of crude fishermen and cultural traitors. He felt the spittle of the Pharisees on his face and the metal hooks of the jailer’s whip in the flesh of his back. He got sweaty and dirty and bloody – and he took all of the sin and mess of the world onto himself, onto the cross to which he was nailed naked.