This morning I
awoke with a hymn running through my mind. The tune is
simple but hauntingly beautiful and it remains one of my
most favorite hymns of all that I know:
Thine
the amen thine the praise alleluias angels raise
Thine the everlasting head thine the breaking of the
bread
Thine the glory thine the story thine the harvest then
the cup
Thine the vineyard then the cup is lifted up lifted up.
Heavenly Father,
do you plant seeds of ideas in my head even as you
planted the very people I needed last year in my life as
I turned to you in prayer and as I grappled with cancer
and all its ramifications? Is this garden of my life one
that you would grow for yourself, cultivating me with
your word, watering me with the tears you shed on my
behalf as you watch me stumble, helping me grow by
bearing me in your compassionate arms as your faithful
people reach out to me not only in times of stress and
sorrow but in times of joy as well? But it is the story,
Lord, the story which you have implanted in my heart that
changes me, that gives me hope, in spite of my
weaknesses, in spite of my sinful thoughts, in spite of
myself.
And the story is
so simple! The story is the empty tomb. It is the angels
in the heavens who announce in glorious song, the birth
of a Savior to a small group of pitiful shepherds who
cower in fright as they listen and obey. It is the angels
who surely sing in eleven part harmony, a more beautiful
and moving "Alleluia" than shall ever be
composed or sung by mankind, on the glorious day of
Resurrection, at the mouth of the empty tomb. It is the
breaking of the bread of heaven, the body of Christ, in
which our sinful nature is bought with a price so dear.
It is the glory of the harvest, the filling of the cup of
life with salvation, the holding of this cup for all to
see, the raising it up in obedience and trust and the
drinking of it to the bottom by the one who, for all
time, came to drink the bitter dregs which are in our
cups, too. It is a cross, a simple wooden cross that
would drain the life from any man who hung from it, but
could not contain the death of Jesus Christ. And this
cross, hanging on history's time line like a diamond in
the rough, has been worshiped and scorned, glorified and
despised, deified, defied and defiled, loved and hated
more than any object in the history of mankind. But it
exists still. It can not be ignored. It compels us to
belief. It is mocked by an empty tomb. It tells the story
- Death is no more!
It is any wonder
that we call Jesus "Savior?" The wonder is
only, with so much of the pompous religiosity which we
have developed since the story began, that we have not
altered the story so much that the saving grace of God
becomes unrecognizable. But grace is here and it has ever
been so.
Thine
the glory in the night no more dying only light
Thine the river thine the tree then the Lamb eternally
Then the holy holy holy celebration jubilee
Thine the splendor thine the brightness only thee only
thee.
Can we, at our
ending, ever ask for more than this, to be welcomed home
from our journey into the light of the Living God in a
holy, mystical jubilation of celebration? Joy. Joy beyond
our knowing. Joy beyond our expectation. Joy beyond our
hope. Joy in the story. Joy in the "Amen!"