Him

The most proficient player casts but a shadow; the most credible pretend suffers loss in mystery. Who can express the fullness thereof?

Men in the likeness of Creator have tried to return the same.  Their dusty hands have spread oil and struck stone in poor attempts at portraiture.

Who can swallow the seed that He’s sown, who is preserved when His gavel is lain? Who has succeeded against His hurricane winds, who has captured the formula? Time never stretches sufficiently enough to learn Him, and good works have never gained ground. 

The amorphous One God; unchanging though disputed, ignored, wrongly worshiped, and violently misrepresented throughout history?

He finally gave Himself a Voice.

A man, Jesus. In time. In form. 

For all our varied retelling of His life, we are unable to reach the reality of the shape of the knuckles and callouses on His carpenter hands. What were His fingernails like?

We have not touched His hem, and we know not how high it rose off the ground. But after years of waste and pain, we feel His healing flow. 

We have not seen the shade of His brown eyes, and yet our secret heart knows their gaze. 

We have not looked down and seen dirty sandals side-by-side on the shore of the Galilee, yet we know He walks with us.

A King, though humble, full of all authority.For all our wantonness and inattention, He has us.

He has ruined, He has taken. He has stripped bare, He has jealously earned. He has won. He came then, His Kingdom comes now, and He’s coming.

We are blessed though we have not seen.