Here is a simple thought;
If Jesus, just before the point of death,
Suddenly jumped down off the cross,
Cleared off the scars and blood,
And was healed from head to toe;
It would have been unbelievable.
But we could have written it.
He died. Was wrapped up. Placed in a tomb. Shut away by a big boulder, and a guard was on watch outside.
Only you God, are the author of that script.
Only you God, would take man’s most beautiful painting,
But then show us your stars.
While you give us a perfect desert,
We fill it with back to back cars.
We aim for progress.
You’re outside of time.
You created poetry.
We struggle to make ends meet.
When we’re right in the middle of that moment,
When we think that’s it; all is gone.
When we’re at the point of giving up,
Give Him the cup and move on.
Give Him the pen so His script can be written,
Give Him your London, He’ll give you Great Britain.
Give Him that small mustard seed, passed from your hand to His;
He’ll give you a mountain to watch dissolve in to His
-Story is perfect,
It’s just that we cannot see,
The end from the beginning,
the wood from the tree.
When the string made of cotton is thread from the back,
To the front; we’ve forgotten; in Him we’ll not lack.
Then from the front to the back, the string is returned,
Another Red Sea; parted, Another lesson in grace; learned.
But the picture’s still messy, why did this or that happen?
Was that my only open door? Was she His will?
Am I trapped in a pattern?
When you saved me from death, I thanked you – my Master.
The wilderness is so appealing, when you’re seconds from disaster.
Babylon becomes ours; it’s still nights,
It’s sky of stars.
The day of small things is no longer despised,
The anonymity, the lack of event, is a possession, now prized.
I’m sorry I swayed.
Here – order my steps, in your safe pasture I’m laid.
I’ll just delight in You, as my heart’s desires You’ll bring,
Bring out the harp, and in the valley I’ll sing.
And in my new obedience in Christ,
It was suddenly time to go;
Back on the road,
Jerusalem – hello!
I pitch up my tent, the stakes are dug deep,
The ropes are stretched out, no more slumber or sleep.
These innocent promises, I make as I sing;
And take the steps to the rooftop, as winter becomes spring.
I take a good look around, as kings leave for war,
I puff out my chest, having been raised from the floor.
I begin to get noticed, tilted crown back straight on the king.
And the fruit of the spirit is in growth in the spring.
The panorama is clear, the lack of drama I cheer,
The contented singleness is pleasing,
Only God is my fear.
I look once again,
Enjoying the view,
The view’s enjoying me,
God, I’m enjoying you.
What a moment of bliss, as heaven and earth kiss,
I could just stand here forever, so not a moment I’ll miss.
I look once again, and in the corner of my eye,
This thing of beauty, catches my attention,
– Hello, again, Mr Magpie!
“But perhaps this is God?” I begin to guess and connect.
“I mean, he does work outside of time. Am I not correct?
Perhaps I’m ready, already, so it didn’t take so long!
For the woman to return to the man,
For us to sing a new song.”
I might be in Jerusalem.
But the walls are still rubble.
If I leave the city now, once again they’ll be trouble.
For the walls need rebuilding, to make a fortress of this city,
So its heart can be pure,
It’s hands clean,
On the top of the hill, the one that we’ll climb,
As I draw this to a close, trying to think of a rhyme.
Lift up your heads, all you gates, be lifted you ancient doors.
In this purification season, this is the reason,
That the grip on the pen must be Yours.
So please continue to write,
This unending script,
Sew the string in your tapestry,
– Without limit.