I have trouble discerning the pruning shears from the ax at the root of the tree. Is this the discipline of my Father? The careful, wise trimming of a loving Gardener. Often I fear that it is the punishment of a Holy Judge. One sin too many. The final test of a fruitless tree. The righteous wrath to bear down on my stubborn neck.
But I stop. The slippery lies. The panicked doubts. Who am I to say that the power of Christ blood has reached it's high tide and I find myself dry on a sandy shore. His redeeming love shall come this far but no further. The audacity.
His atonement is an raging tsunami that over takes the swiftest runner and the strongest grip clutching earthen security.
It overcomes, it overwhelms. It drowns me in a bed of crimson. I don't want to die. I resist. I struggle against death. You are good? This is right? With burning lungs I scream into the thick.
Death of a wretch. Death of desires that lead to deeper death.
Old sinks. New floats to surface.
A canopy of stars.
The peace of letting go.
This is Love.
These Hands are strong. The power to rend the all that stood between Heaven and earth. How will I not be crushed.
Eyes that see. Not just what is but what shall be.
Help me trust your hurts.
If only your silences were not so deafening.
Spring will bring blossom. Fuller. Stronger.
Can I be naked in the garden again? The intimacy that is everything I crave and everything I fear.
The worst is over.
You will never be apart from Me again. Only ever closer. Closer.