I can't seem to move past Friday.
My heart has been like a tomb for too long, I say here in this stillness, and I lay my head down and weep into the desk.
For in this brokenness, I know I believe in death. But do I still believe in resurrection?
In this tomb of my heart, the words of a song hang in the air full of stench, cry out to the Savior's broken body wrapped in linen cloth there and bathed in spices:
"I want to know a song can rise from the ashes of a broken life
And all that's dead inside can be reborn."
And I sit, and I weep, and I wait for hope of resurrection.
And I hear my Savior calling from the cross, from the grave, inside this tomb of heart, as I read the words of another:
“For you. For all your regrets and for all your impossibles, for all that will never be and for all that once was, for all that you can’t make right and for all that you got wrong, for your Judas failures and your Peter denials and your Lazarus griefs, I offer to take the nails, the sharp edge of everything, and offer you myself because I want you, to take you, you in your wild grief, you in your anger and your disappointment and your wounds and your not-yet-there, you, just as you are, not some improved version of you, but you – I came for you, to hold you, to carry you, to save you.”
His body, it lays still now, but I know on the third day, he rises. He rises from brokenness I will never have to know in my own body or heart and floods the tomb with life, opens his arms wide and looks me in the eyes, calling "You." If he can rise from all that, surely, he can raise this dead in me back to life. This dead in you. This dead in us.
Oh. Savior, come. Come with your song that rises from ashes of broken. Come.
Linking up with Lisa Jo and the Five-Minute Friday community - on Saturday, as has become my new normal lately.