From the cross the arms of Jesus stretch out like wings wide, self-embracing.
So inclusive are these arms of God even I am drawn in; I, who chose not to go to Jerusalem.
I hear those words again, echoing in my soul, “Behold, we are going up to Jerusalem.”
My eyes rest upon the wood of the cross; so this is where that journey led you! I suspected as much; that’s why I didn’t go.
My tightly clenched fists of fear open just a bit: my mediocre heart kneels down.
I lay my head into my hands; I weep softly, but not desperately. Love, like this, always makes me nervous.
The face under my mediocrity peers out at the cross and I ache because the perfect love that casts out fear is not at home in me.
And yet, those arms of God, those wings of love, keep on encircling me. I feel incredibly taken in, accepted, loved.
May this wood of the cross be my tree of life leading me to all the Jerusalems I still must journey.
Source: Seasons of Your Heart: Prayers and Reflections, pp. 141-142.
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