You came in street clothes and stood right beside me, every day. You worked in the rhythms of a human body: fasting, feasting, resting, mourning, and simply living through all of the ordinary days, and you were always giving thanks. You were always waiting and listening, trusting and obeying with a perfect lack of fear. You knew, you've always known, that your Father is good, and His business works best in His timing.
When power came on you like a dove, you didn't falter in your humility, you embraced your authority with the attitude of a servant, serving many, serving the greatest and the least of these, serving the ones who walked beside you even when they still couldn't see that you were the spitting image of your good good Father. That Friday, when you refused to denounce your birthright and chose to accept your title as king, though it meant beating, slander, and the worst agony, that Friday, while your kind and simple face got obscured by your blood, your good Father's heart was displayed perfectly. Standing before me now, still in plain clothes, looking like a gardener, traveler, or friend, your strange and humble beauty astounds me again, because I can touch you who conquered death, hear you say my name audibly, trace your scars with my fingertips, share a meal you prepared for me, my resurrected King, what kind of kingdom is your good Father building? "Come and see." Comments are closed.
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AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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