Stepping from the throne, He removed His robe of light and wrapped himself in skin. The light of the universe entered a dark, wet womb. He whom angels worship nestled Himself in the placenta of a peasant, was birthed into the cold night, and then slept on a cowa hay. Can anything make me stop loving you? God asks. Watch me speak your language, sleep on your earth and feel your hurts. Behold the maker of sight and sound as He sneezes, coughs and blows His nose. You wonder if I understand how you feel? Look into the dancing eyes of the kid in Nazareth; thats God walking to school. Ponder the toddler at Marys table; thats God spilling His milk. You wonder how long my love will last? Find your answer on a splintered cross, on a craggy hill. Thats me you see up there, your Maker, your God, nail-stabbed and bleeding. Covered in spit and sin-soaked. Thats your sin Im feeling. Thats your death Im dying. Thats your resurrection Im living. Thats how much I love you. ~ Max Lucado, In the Grip of Grace
Posted on: Mon, 22 Dec 2014 14:29:13 +0000
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