Written on March 31, 2018.
(MARCH 30, 2018)
In the pause of prepare for Passover, I found “On Your Mind” (Awe Chris Stewart) my Pesach passage.
Blood stained brow. Bride on your mind. Love spilled out. Sown in the ground. Lungs fought for life, as your heart slowed down. I was on your mind in your darkest hour. Even then, I was on your mind. The world fell apart that night and you were there. Judgement came for me that night and you met it there.
This. This moment. Not a simple trade at a rugged tree. Not just brokered blood, bound for debt.
For ‘on’ is more than a layered transparency that allows what is at the surface to be seen. So much more than tattooed skin, etched with our excess. A more dire degree than dust swept away with broken breath.
For it was not our sin that was applied, but our selves. A people seizing salvation, without the knowing of our need.
We, not upon His skin, but beneath it.
He could not simply accept our sin upon Him. Our anchored Advocate had to become the scandal. Had to be with us at its very inception. At the crest of of crime.
He Needed to be at sin’s surface. At the origin of our offense.
A participant as if it was His wrong, because we are His right. In order to never be separated, He was God with us, even then.
We, the wretched we, filled every sense of Him. He saw, smelled, tasted and felt weighted into Him; the shame, the remorse, the resist, the regret. Invaded to His entirety, He clung. To us.
Our pity, His price.
Only under his skin, could the extravagant experience occur. For every tempt and trial, struggle and strain, He welcomed us into Himself. That we would experience resurrection and return.
With Him, tethered to the tattered, we could see our aimless arrows pierce His hands, wound His feet and shatter His heart. Arranged archers. Confounded culprits, there, hoped to the happening of His wound and heal.
For when a tree is grafted, both portions are cut and then attached at the wound. Lingered at the lesion. Torn at His tear, for the fulfillment of found.
I am a shipwreck upon His shore over this. I can’t get over it. Ever. He joined us to Himself. Forever. So fond of us, so devoted. Blood spilled in an act of affection. His ruin, our return. The Relentless Reminder refuses to let me go.
At our Passover gathering last night, our Pesach passion, I just wanted to break. Wide open. And pour the story out. I couldn’t. I so often can’t. The enormity of my eternity swallows me whole. So I worshipped with my bodied instrument straining and stretching for every pierce and praise.
In a garden, Adam’s bride was born from his broken side. At Passover, creation birthed a nation from its cavernous one. And then Jesus. My everything Jesus. Nailed to tree for our nativity. Our genesis spilling from Him. Blood and water the signs of birth. His side, dilated for our expanse.
His veil of skin torn wide, so we might wear the rent curtain. The sign of our betrothal. His.
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