Yahweh’s Masterpiece

God who waits with me,

Still, in the quiet night.

This day has kept me running,

From my own racing heartbeat.

 

But I still,

And claw my way past the raging,

And take hold of keys,

And I find You still here,

Waiting.

 

God who has been with me all the day,

And I’ve known it.

Felt Your presence hanging near me,

And all around me,

Like a cloud,

Overshadowing me.

 

But guilt has made me restless,

And the cloud felt like a pressure,

Closing in,

And I’ve held it at arm’s length.

 

Guilt and fear,

Of failure,

And being wrong,

Have kept me dancing in circles,

All day.

 

I look back now,

And I’ve been like a silly prancing pony,

Dancing wild in circles,

And up on my hind legs,

Making a fool of myself,

Much to someone’s amusement. 

 

And I’ve spent the day,

Running from my own shadow,

And making terrors,

Out of hanging linens.

 

And anxiety has a way,

Of making you afraid to sit still,

Or to do anything, really.

And suddenly everything,

Becomes the wrong thing,

And nothing gets done well,

As you flit nervously from task,

To task.

 

Like a frightened Goldilocks,

Running to and fro,

Trying out all the different beds and chairs,

Trying to figure out which one feels right.

 

Flitting from bowl to bowl,

And trying all the different porridge,

Trying to figure out,

Which one tastes right.

 

But none of them do. 

And with each one you wonder,

Is this one better?

Or was the last?

 

And anxiety is like the story of Goldilocks,

Unending.

Where she just flits from chair to chair,

And bed to bed,

In a panicked frenzy to choose the right one,

Before time runs out.

 

It’s quite comical really,

From the outside.

But from the inside it feels like a prison.

Like your rib cage has become iron bars,

Shutting in your panicked and fluttering heart,

Desperate for escape.

 

So I have spent this day.

And I shake my head at myself,

And I sigh heavy,

And I feel the weight of failure,

Land like a thick wet blanket,

On my shoulders.

 

And what I was running from,

Found me.

And it turns out the running,

Was the trap right into its teeth,

All along.

 

The day ends,

And half-done things,

And half-thought thoughts,

And half-fulfilled intentions,

Lie strewn at my feet.

 

And I’m standing in a circle of half-finished,

And failure.

And the despair weighs on me,

Like a dampness lingering just outside the circle,

Menacing and mocking,

And intent on snuffing out,

My very worth and existence.

 

Voices call me names,

And there’s no escape from their bleating. 

From somewhere outside of the circle,

Hidden in the shadows,

They take their turns,

Mocking,

Accusing.

Making me dizzy with the chasing after,

The trails of their arguments.

 

I stand here amidst the half-finished mess,

And the failure is evident,

At my feet.

And the names that they cry,

Find their way into my tender places,

And they pierce,

For they’re true.

 

I am all the things they cry at me.

Idolater.

Adulterer.

Arrogant.

Lofty.

Self-righteous.

 

These demons of my flesh,

Live in me still.

And haunted by their shadows,

I have lived many days,

In tormented fear,

And self-loathing guilt.

 

But in the middle of the circle,

Of half-finished and failure,

There burns a fire.

And I am standing in its glow,

And though the voices taunt me,

From outside in the shadows,

They cannot come near the light,

Nor the flame.

 

For standing here,

In darkest night,

There burns the gospel.

And none of the forces of darkness,

Can come near the fire,

Nor quench or quell,

Its flames.

 

The light shines in the darkness,

And the darkness has not overcome it.

 

The voices taunt me,

And they call me names,

All of them true.

 

But I walk on. 

 

They shout in my ears,

But I stay near the fire,

And I press on,

In spite of myself,

And my failure.

 

For I’m finally,

Slowly,

Starting to get it into my bones.

 

That You are the victory of the gospel.

And I walk on,

Because You have won.

And because my soul,

Is Your trophy,

And Your victory.

 

I walk on,

Because it’s not about me,

But it’s about You.

 

And if I would only get it sooner,

I would spare myself much distress.

Yet that I get it at all,

And can stand,

And even lift my face,

And dare to worship,

Is grace. 

 

This anchor in my soul,

This habit that is taking hold,

And changing me.

 

This truth that holds like an anchor.

This promise like a solid rock,

In the midst of a raging sea.

 

Confessing Your name.

 

And I remember who You are,

And everything changes.

 

For all the accusations,

And the fears,

And the guilt,

Are looking at me.

And it’s unanswerable,

With my own name.

 

I have nothing to say to it,

And no excuse to make.

My own name,

Is unsuitable.

And my track record,

Is covered with mud,

Where I’ve marched in my own name,

And left a tattered trail.

 

But the gospel,

Isn’t about my name.

It’s about Yours.

 

And it’s Your name we will praise forever.

And it’s Your salvation we will sing.

And at the end of it all,

It has really nothing to do,

With us at all.

 

But it’s Your plan,

And Your work,

From beginning to end.

 

And You do all things well.

 

You do good and thorough,

And beautiful work.

And I marvel at the plan You’re unfolding.

 

You created the world,

With Your spoken word,

And You said it was good.

How much greater,

Is this part of the work,

Where You bled Your own blood,

And plunged deep,

Into Your own plan?

 

For all eternity,

We will be singing,

How good and great it is.

 

And You look on all this work,

And You smile.

And the finished work,

Delights Your soul.

 

And You are Yahweh,

The Uncaused One,

And no one forced Your hand,

Or made You to do this,

Or forced You to be,

Who You are.

 

But You chose all this,

Willingly,

Because it pleased and delighted You,

To do so.

 

And from before creation,

You knew the beginning from the end,

And You worked the whole thing,

From start to finish,

Because it pleased You.

 

God who has painted,

The story of creation and redemption,

With deepest colors and shades,

You delight in the work Your hands have done.

 

God who has plunged deeper,

Into the fabric of reality,

Than we will ever go.

God whose work,

Is so much deeper than we know,

You delight in what You have done.

 

You are the Boundless God,

Who does boundless work.

And Your redemption,

Is a pool that has no bottom.

 

And we’ve only just waded in,

And we’re sinking to the bottom,

But there is no bottom,

And we keep sinking.

Forever.

 

Bottomless God,

Who has swallowed us up,

Into His vastness.

God who has taken us,

Right into the heart,

Of His limitless depths.

 

We explode within ourselves,

And we worship what we see and taste and touch,

And still we have no idea,

Of the vastness.

 

But You look on the depths,

Of what You’ve done,

And You understand the ripples,

And You can peer into the expanse,

And You look out over it,

And Your soul is well-pleased,

With what You’ve done.

 

Your redemption,

Is Your handiwork.

It is Your masterpiece,

And Your soul’s delight.

 

You delight in Your own work,

And the beauty You’ve created,

Through infinite wisdom.

 

And we are trophies of Your victory,

And the fruit of Your labor,

And the product of Your work.

And You delight in us,

The end of Your labor,

And the masterpiece of Your blood, sweat and tears.

 

From beginning to end,

You have worked it,

And created it.

And we stand here,

Amazed to be a part of it.

Amazed at the glorious masterpiece,

We’ve become.

 

Worthy is the Lamb,

Who has ransomed people to God,

From every tribe, tongue, and nation.

Worthy is He,

Who has made us a kingdom,

And priests to our God.

 

Blessed is the One,

Who has done all of this,

From first to last.

 

The one who planned it,

And executed it,

And brought it all ’round,

To where He intended it to be.

 

Blessed is the God,

Who did all this,

Because it pleased Him.

 

The God who planned creation and redemption,

Because He chose to,

And who worked it like a masterpiece,

And whose soul rests,

In the fruit of His deep work.

 

Blessed is this God,

Who works deep things,

Out of the deepest places.

God whose wisdom is beyond comprehension,

And whose beauty extends beyond sight,

In all directions.

 

We walk in this world,

And it’s full of the Uncaused God.

We touch truth,

And it tinges with the electricity,

Of the One whose nature,

It is.

 

Our world is alive,

With the Uncaused God.

And He created,

Because it pleased Him.

We ponder this and suddenly,

Our world is deeper than we knew.

 

And suddenly there is infinite wisdom,

In even the dirt at our feet,

And in our DNA.

 

There is infinite wisdom and beauty,

In all that our God has done.

And there is the vastness of His soul,

And His nature,

Hidden in every thing.

 

And it’s in the Son of God,

That we see the nature of the Most High,

In it’s fullness and potency.

And the depths of His soul,

Are unsearchable.

 

Son of God,

Who, for the joy set before Him,

Endured the cross,

Despising its shame.

 

Son of God,

Who did the Father’s deepest work,

Which the Father Himself,

Was doing.

 

For the Son did,

Only what He saw the Father doing.

And the Son died upon the cross,

And this was the Father working,

The deepest part of His masterpiece.

 

And His soul was well satisfied,

In the depths of His work.

And though He despised the shame,

Yet the beauty He was making,

Brought Him joy.

 

And that joy,

Will last for all eternity.

As the Son sits enthroned,

And the redeemed stand before the throne,

And worship.

 

And the beauty of redemption,

In that heavenly place,

And all that comes,

In the new heaven and earth,

I cannot even begin,

To fathom.

 

These are depths,

I haven’t peered into.

And for the moment,

I am not permitted to know,

Or to look.

 

But I see it up ahead,

And reflected,

In a mirror dimly.

Yet one day,

will see it,

Face to face.

 

Redemption’s full beauty,

Will stare me full in the face.

And I will behold the very depths of wisdom,

And I will gaze into the eyes,

Of the God who has no beginning,

Or end.

 

And the depth of the treasure,

Of being there with Him,

And being a breathing part,

Of His completed masterpiece,

I cannot even begin to begin,

To comprehend.

 

To see redemption full in the face,

And from beginning to end,

All laid out before me,

Stretching end to end,

In the heavens of God,

I cannot imagine.

 

To see the kingdom of God,

Laid out from beginning to end,

This sea of faces and souls.

And to be a part of it,

And gaze full on the Lamb of God,

And the Glorious Father,

And to sing their praises,

For all eternity long,

 

And in that moment,

And in the praising,

To be a very part,

Of their souls’ satisfaction,

And the very trophy and fragrance,

Of their victory and masterpiece,

It is more than my soul,

Knows what to do with.

 

Yet this is precisely,

What You are moving me toward.

And this is precisely,

What I am part of right now,

Though the fullness of what I will be,

Is not yet known.

 

But when I see You,

I shall be like You,

For I shall see You as You are.

 

Son of God,

I am a trophy of Your victory.

And my life plays out Your victory,

And each moment it does,

My life lives out praise to You.

 

And my triumph,

Is Your success.

And the fruit of Your work.

And the Father delights,

And is pleased with You,

And what You’ve done.

 

And I stand before the Father,

And my soul is not my own resume,

But Yours.

 

And it reads Your name,

And it is Your success story,

And Your praise,

And Your song.

 

And the Father is pleased,

With Your work,

With His work,

With His masterpiece.

 

You are the Uncaused God,

Who creates,

And delights in His own masterpiece.

 

And I am one small part of that.

And my soul is Your victory,

And Your delight.

 

I ponder these things,

And heaven seems to be breathing right here.

And I am not worthy to breathe this,

Yet You breathe in me,

And I am part of something,

Far, far, far greater than me.

 

Almighty God,

Unworthy as I am to offer it,

Yet I stand here,

And I give You worship,

And praise,

For what You’ve done.

 

And it should come,

From fairer lips,

Than mine.

And yet the clay of my lips,

Makes the power and beauty of Your song,

Ever sweeter.

 

Son of God,

In an earthen vessel,

Of clay.

 

Heaven and hell alike,

Marvel.

And I stand wide-eyed,

In the middle of grace,

Far greater than me.

{Selah}

 

The fire’s become a blaze now,

And the voices have long since vanished.

The glory of God blazes brilliant here,

And my soul goes into the Holy of Holies to worship,

And here in the warmth of His presence,

The Holy One bids my weak flesh,

Lie down in safety,

And sleep.

 

And so I do.

And my Savior tucks me into Him,

And my Shepherd bids me rest,

And my soul finds rest in His presence,

And I sleep.

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