Monday, 03 December 2007
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He Has Paid Your Ransom
Bearing Your burden.
Pain.
Our voices raised-- with outstretched arms,We are wounded;
And crawling after You.
We have scrapped our knees upon the rocks-Our hands are pierced as with swords.
Our flesh tears; still we find the strength to stand.
Our last.
Rising up to You, God.
Our voices grow hoarse. We are straining so that our veins show through.
Blood vessels burst. We are singing.
This is the end.
People praising God
In agony.
In awe.
In love.
For Your Name's sake.
What a beautiful noise
To go out singing
Praises to our God.
And then there is that old man.--
He lies upon his mat.
Wasted away; no more can be done to help him.
Death is near-
So close that he can taste it.
He licks his lips as his saliva runs dry.
From those same broken lips he sings praises to his God.
He breathes Your Name as he breathes his last.
To die in worship- with hands outstretched.
He cries, "Glorious!"
The people around him watch.
His voice grows louder as tears roll down his face--
"Glorious!"
The tears of one who has seen beauty.
"Glorious!"
Someone is echoing.
"Glorious!"The people around him join in singing. They lift up their hands. They fall to their knees. Suddenly they know You. Suddenly they have seen You.
"Glorious!"
The old man begins to pass;
In the midst of worship.
He lets out a gasp as his lungs and brain search desperately for oxygen.A sound proceeds his final breath. His last exhale is similar to the sound of his cries of, "Glorious."
And the people praised God.
This is the song that my heart sings, but you cannot hear its sound.
May the people of this world realize that God has paid their ransom--
That they should seek Your face, O God; that they would know Your Name.
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