and never so willingly so.
and never a protest or blow.
and never so undeservedly.
and never so hurriedly.
we waited, we held our breath, we wondered what was meant by His death.
we questioned, we cried, our hope nearly died.
days crawled by
we hid in fear
trembling . . . until
“HE IS NOT HERE!!”
and never so excitedly done.
and never so eternally won.
He emptied Himself, became a man,
He emptied the tomb when he rose again,
He emptied me, in a work of grace,
I am His, I’ll see His face.
Happy Easter, everybody. He is risen . . . He is risen, indeed.
“He sees the story as He tells it, while He weaves it, shapes it, and sings it. And He stepped inside it.”
“The shadows exist in the painting, the dark corners of grief and trial and wickedness all exist so that He might step inside them, so we could see how low He can stoop. In this story, the Author became flesh and wandered the stage with Hamlet, offering His own life. In this story, the Author heaped all that He loathed, all that displeased Him, all the wrongness of the world, onto Himself. Evil exists so that He might be demeaned and insulted, so that the depth of His love and sacrifice could be expressed as much as is possible in the small frame of history.”
-taken from “Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl” by N.D. Wilson