This thing that is
but we often cannot see.
Too close for us to see the magnitude,
the glory of this structure.
We often see the detail
But not the stretching, sweeping scale of the thing.

It wraps us up.
Holds us.
So we consider it gentle. Warm. Kind.
We do not see, though, the violent nature.
The wrath and hate for the converse: our sin.

We do not see the scale.
We touch what is visible through our tunnel eyes and say "grace."
But we see only a fragment of the grand, scandalous tapestry
That God has woven together over time.

The fabric of the world itself.
The very reason the stars are strung together.
When we choose to put one foot in front of the next, it's grace.

This gracious glory buried within us,
Beating on our ribs to speak of his wonder.
With this touch, life is given.

The giver's love is this cloak.
This sea of blue green forgetfulness. This face of majesty.
The crackling, roaring thunder.

Grace, his sound.
Glory, his bright display.
Breaks and creates. And finds us. And we're found.

The split curtain. The opened back.
The mingling blood and water.
The flood that destroys the world we've built.
All the earth submitting to his power.

The Cross.

Grace wrapped in triumphant glory.
He is the eyes-shut embrace. The driving rain.
The wind blows, but only at his word.

And this same fury, this sin-thrashing storm,
Is the tempest that bows to wash our feet.
And this same fury, this sin-thrashing storm,
Is the tempest that bows to wash our feet.

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