4am

Morning of Easter.

I lay myself at the tender feet of Jesus. I think what a sacrifice He made for me. Only He can blow across my garden and bring warmth. His love makes the dark light again. In His presence there is fullness. Why is it so difficult for me to allow Him to heal me? I feel stony, callused, and cold as steel.

I'm thankful that when I've neglected and rebuffed Him, He hasn't turned away from me. I'm thankful that despite the wicked intent of my heart, He loves me. He knew me, and yet He loved me. I cannot comprehend how He stands with His arms wide open waiting for me to fall into them time after time. I cannot grasp how He is able to pick me up and dust me off over and over and over. What manner of love is this? While yet in my sin, He died for me. He chose to take on my sin, my guilt, my shame, and my punishment.

I am dark and yet He calls me lovely. I am forever grateful.