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The tired, weak hands, crumpling the paper. Pushing to feel the pain, the burn, the punishment, whatever it is. And there’s the body, on the floor, fallen. The body contorted, pushing still, till it fell. 

Exhaustion. Mental war, agony. Angry hand, wishing to punch, fists not wanting to strike but the mind racing to hit, too tired a body to really bring it all out. Too cautious.

Unknowing, silent, angry, sick.

Have you felt the body drop to the floor?

Or, have your hands risen up in worship?

Has vomit tingled your throat, edging towards your mouth?

Has the loss and despair brought you to a halt of solemn wonder?

Has the guilt weakened your hands, angered your mind, your body?

And then, there’s the truth. It rises up, it comes out, it breathes. It breathes because it is life, it is Life. The breath of God. Not really literal, but the realization. It overcomes, or at least comes in some sense. Mustn’t it always come and end here?

After the body’s been done with its raging and the mind its anger, and all has fallen: there, there comes the Holy One and His truth. There comes the Truth.

And now it all ends in some form of hands risen, risen to the Lord Almighty. The hands raise through a song, through that cracking voice, cracking through the beautiful realization in the midst of that cloud of sorrow.

The hands raise through a picture, where the artist sketches a broken woman, crying in the darkness with a knife at her side, while a light pierces through, and then the next picture: a fire. The light comes and wraps around the woman and tosses the knife like a dream.

The hands raise literally, and the eyes go up briefly maybe, and then back down. The neck tilts towards the earth and hands go up in the stuffy bedroom of old tears and realizations of reality.

The hands go up in some writing like a poem, or a piece of prose, or a short story where the serial killer comes home with tears in his eyes and new hope in his heart like nothing anyone’s ever read or could think of writing.

The hands go up in some way, as the Creator draws in the broken soul, the broken child, the broken son or daughter who’s oh so weary of walking and crying and simply trying to make it. The hands go up as the words are remembered,


Psalm 103:1-18

And as the hands rise up, Jesus’ voice is recalled,


Matthew 11:28-30

The love of the Father is brought to mind as the body drops, the vomit tingles, the sorrow chokes, the fear scratches, the emptiness gnaws.

Once again, there’s Jesus in our minds. Once again, there He is with His servants, while He washes the grime off their feet, while He touches the dirt on their toes.

And there He is, given over by a friend. There He is while the rest of His friends run. There He is in the dark of night, arrested.

There He is, the soldiers spitting on Him. Cursing at Him. Insulting Him.

There’s the crowd, calling for His death. In the town where He held their children, and healed their sick, and loved them, there the crowd cries out, “Crucify, crucify! He is not our King! Kill the man! The criminal!”

There He is, carrying the cross, bloody, broken, silent. There He is, hanging. There He is, forgiving. There He is, crying out to God,


Matthew 27:46b

And there He is, dead.

But there, once again, the stone is gone. He is gone. He’s alive.

And there’s Mary, crying out to her teacher.

There’s Peter, broken over what he did, telling Jesus, “I love You, You know that I love You.”

There’s the disciples, so weak and weary and afraid. And then there’s Jesus, showing up when all seems lost like some movie where the hero isn’t dead after all. And there He is, the hero.

Then there’s you, sitting there. There’s the tears, or the sad dry eyes, or the broken body, or the stomach sick at the sin. There’s you, and then there’s Jesus calling out once again. There’s Jesus saying, “It’ll be alright my child. I’ve got you.”

There, in the stuffy room, or at the hospital bed, or over at the tree dying because fall’s setting in, or at three o’clock when the clouds cover the sky while you weep across the busy street, there. 

Right there. There’s the call, there’s the reminder.

There is the wrapping around you, there are the arms you’d forgotten were there, there are all the flooding memories of what the Scriptures say. There’s the reminder once again:


Isaiah 55:1-3

All direct verse quotations are taken from the ESV

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