The Former Things (Monday in Holy Week)
See –
He who stretched the heavens out with His hands
And spread out the earth and all it contains,
Whose breath fills our lungs with infinitude,
Who beckons us in with His arms –
He sees the smouldering wick in the dark
And the reed that has been bruised too many times;
He sees the blind and the dungeon-bound
And the hopeless cases of dawn.
He sees
And His arms know how to stretch out
To draw us in and encompass our wounds;
He sees and He falls lower than us
And does not grasp hold of His throne.
See Him ride, a king bound for death,
Eyes set on that city of misconstrued peace,
Where the broken are scourged and the bruised are now laden
With new yokes and burdens to carry;
See Him reach
With arms bent on grace, a king of deep wounds,
A man well-acquainted with sorrows and grief
Who erases the former things with each step
And ushers hope into the past.
The Consolations of Writing 