Lord Jesus, when Mary poured out her ointment on Your feet, she chose to. She gave that precious ointment because she loved You. It was worth it because she knew why and for whom she broke the alabaster.
When You suffered at Gethsemane and at Calvary, You gave Yourself in obedience, for love of a Father. You went willingly. You offered all because it honoured God and rescued me.
I don't know what my hurt is for. I don't know who I honour. I don't choose this long, dark road.
Maybe I couldn't choose it. Maybe You just gave it because You read my heart, and You know that I do love You and I am willing to sacrifice, even when I lack the power to act. Beneath my weak whining, I do want to honour You.
Sin rises up and overcomes me. It confuses me, and makes me unsure of what I really desire. But You who see beneath the deceit of my heart, You know what I really want. You read my deep longing, and You have given this. So I, who cannot understand for what and for whom I hurt, can choose to honour You in how I take it. Accept the worship of my heart, not in the cost of my hurt, but in what it costs me to bow before You in the middle of my confusion.
I have offered no Isaac, but I bow. I accept Your taking away. I will honour You in my emptiness. I will sing a song to You in the great, howling gap that is my heart. Let it be my sacrifice. Let me honour You.
2 comments:
Jen when we are bearing a cross we are not our own, we know not the end of the journey. The pain is so great, we feel so alone we do not know he is there. The morning comes He is there with a towel as a servant to comfort only a servant only this time He has the print of the nail in His hand
Jen when we are bearing a cross we are not our own, we know not the end of the journey. The pain is so great, we feel so alone we do not know he is there. The morning comes He is there with a towel as a servant to comfort only a servant only this time He has the print of the nail in His hand
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