It is the sound of tears falling,
Steadily, uncontrollably, but consciously;
It is a weeping, not just on the outside, and not just of grief.
It is a mixture of broken pieces,
Inside out and nothing left to hide – emptied out;
Every shard a testimony of grace and gratitude long sought.
Take me to the Place where the saints gather,
To the convention of the just made perfect;
Where the clouds of glory settle and tongues of fire dance;
To the atmosphere so pure that I come undone to be refined.
It is where David dances and Solomon sits to be taught;
A place whose gates Sampson’s strength does not qualify him to guard.
Worship is me – good ol’ me, lying late and rising early
Thinking and writing about worship at the break of dawn;
It is you reading my words and reflecting on the nature
Of the worship you’ve offered and desire to offer.
There’s a sound that echoes from the earth on days like today;
It spans the spectrum of the audible to the inaudible,
And emanates from the animate and the inanimate.
It is such a unique breathtaking sound:
A rolling, roaring, rushing, rising, whirling, spreading,
Bubbling, soul-stirring, ascending cascade of thoughts and postures;
A sound tellingly tangible and very visible in the right light.
It is filled with demands, accusations, confessions, flatteries,
Mirth, sadness, pain, reverence, disdain, affront, gratitude;
And an inexhaustible list of other states of the human condition,
Together with the various states and cries of nature.
In the midst of trials, sometimes up is down
And the lines are blurred; Truth is trifled with,
The boundaries of falsehood are extended,
And to distinguish between left and right
Is to choose between a rock and a hard place.
Like incense, let the fragrance of this sacrifice of worship rise
Beyond the reach of my voice and words, even my thoughts and imaginations.
Like rain, let Your blessings fall on this parched existence I call my own
Soaking deeper than I can reach, enough to overflow, spread and stretch
Further than I can see, or hear, or broadly estimate, much less predict.
What does it mean to be called a child of God?
What price is enough, to be called by His name?
I may not completely understand the depth of the mystery;
I can definitely not afford, and am unworthy of bearing the cost;
But I am called by His name, by the working of Grace.
When everything threatens to fall apart;
When I lift up my eyes, and there seems to be nothing to see;
When I look down, and it feels like I’m standing on nothing but hot air;
When my faith is tossed, and trembling under the load of circumstances;
When I’m on the verge of running out of tears to shed,
And tear tracks have formed a speedway along my cheeks;
Oh, how quickly they fall…tell me not about how the mighty have fallen;
No, I am not a man of many sorrows, because He has called me by name.
All of creation declares the glory of God;
Without words they speak;
Even stationary they show;
Just by being, they proclaim.
Of these I am sure:
That the Lord is my shepherd;
That His Spirit keeps my heart pure;
That by His Grace, my cries are always heard.