Blessed King

"A throne is not enough, nor a million angels, nor a thousand martyrs, to fall at His feet."

I watched a flock of swallows swoop and dive over the lawn and couldn't help but see them as our praises. Our voices lifted, worldwide, calling out over the waves, mingled together, language to language, as a cup overflowed. And I saw Him there, amidst them, our love on every side, breaths fragrant with incense.

A moment later they had gone, but the image remained with the height of it, the circle of it, that this earth that He created and these people that He died for are poured out for His honor, for His majesty. A throne is not enough, nor a million angels, nor a thousand martyrs, to fall at His feet. Gold and silver, precious stones, like pebbles surround Him, and rays of light cascade from Him. Yet the greatest worship, the highest praises come from the lowest among us.

That the soil lifts withered fingers and from fomented lips repeats His holiness is far more fitting. Where men desire the finest of things, velvet and lace, subservience, obeisance dedicated to arrogance and self-service, this One which has all things desires not for Himself flagellation, but to hear us see Him, to see us hear Him, to know, with our hungry voices, we walk toward Him.

For this He died, for this He lives. Though on earth, men grew a temple, watered it, pruned it, ignored it, though they filled it with wine until it overflowed, where He stood amongst it was hollow. Grandeur fallen into a platform, sticks and stones which harbored bones, which aged anger and ashes scattered upon the altar in place of life. Where He spoke, seeds grew, or flew away like those birds. Or sunk among those stones, peering out lest the sun hide them.

He found His dignity amongst thieves, found sustenance in wilderness, shed blood upon soldiers and mockers and those deceived, and planted there a garden, well-watered by a spring He dug with His heels in the clay, which gasps out His footprints in the shape of hearts.

A shining floor, a brilliant reflection of skies and seas, mountains and valleys green, crisscrossed by evidence of peoples living, living because He willed it so, because He gave it so. Swirling in love for a Savior whose glory they savor in a celebration of words. Holy, holy, holy, thou blessed King.


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Suzanne D. Williams, Author
www.suzannedwilliams.com
www.feelgoodromance.com