Nothing like the releasing valve of the cross which lifts the shame I bear. Yes at his cross alone is where my pain, my guilt is all removed so I feel free. I find the rubble of my scattered life gently scooped up by his two scarred hands.
I watch in shock the father’s cries; he looks away, from his wounded son, to me his gazing eyes I note. He is judging him on my behalf. The price is paid the roads now cleared. My clenching fist he holds with care, offering his tender gift.
Ashamed, alone in my throbbing pain I yield to him his healing hand. So when he picks this broken clay and I’m back on the potter’s wheel again. I know that his work on me is not yet done; he moulds me to be like his holy one.
How can anyone with hopeless words with lips infected by this broken world raise their cry to holy God? Yet with this broken sorry heart, are the bold words that are coming out “my saviour, my comforter my strength, my love, my life” to you I come.
With every breath and every sigh with every worry and every smile he’s looking at me with father’s eyes. You saved this sinner and wretch that I am, holding on to my trembling hand. My tower of refuge my hiding place in you alone I rest today.