All of our brokenness, our outrage, our missteps, our intentional straying ...
All of our disgusting wanderingness, our idols, our grasping and reaching and groping for ...
that which is not You ...
How we set beauty, happiness, false peace, entitlement, and ourselves on the mantle of our hearts ...
Your rightful place ...
Oh, Jesus, forgive us. Incline Your ears and eyes to our tears, our pleas, our sorrow. Give our lowness a taste of Your highness.
Remind us.
Forgive us.
In my "David" moments, I throw my hands up in soul-wrenching sorrow, in whole-body grief, and in impassioned pleas for relief from this world's all-night affair with sin. Yet even as I am shaken at my father's brazen dance with that which You despise and warned us against, I am reminded of my own hands ... calloused from nail-pounding at Calvary.
And I'm so thankful you gave me fresh flesh. Still sin-prone, but not sin-bound, and not sin-satisfied.
However can I boast of you in the wilderness and desert place? Show Yourself to Him, and I'll point to the beautiful blaze that is You. Give Him a drink of Yourself that burns of truth and goodness, that tempts him to Your holiness, and makes him long for a day in Your courts. Bring Him to a place where his idols and pride destruct before his eyes, and he rejoices for being spared their eternal company.
Where my father needs His Father.
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