O love that will not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to Thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in Thy sunshine's glow, its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to Thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be.

O cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to hide from Thee;
I lay in dust life's glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

George Matheson

 

Poetry. . . there’s something about it that slides an ache into the soul, that releases emotion in such a way that mere words cannot. And when that poetry is set to music, the beauty is even greater.

Sometimes overwhelmingly so.

We sang this song in church last night, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. . . the pursuit of the Father, the restoration found in Him, the promise of life, and not life only, but life everlasting.

A love that will not let me go. . . though I run from it, though I turn away from it, though I cower beneath my own undoneness and protest that it cannot claim me, wasted and ruined as I am. Perhaps that is why the soul that at last rests in this love is a weary one. Weary of fighting that which would heal it.

“I give Thee back the life I owe. . .” Only returning to the Maker what is rightfully His, and yet how often I struggle, not realizing the richness and fullness of a life wholly surrendered to Him.

Why are we so afraid to give things up to God? Do we really think we can take better care of them than He can? Surely the One Who hung the stars and stirs the oceans can provide for us far better than we can provide for ourselves.

Yet still we run, and still we cling to the things and the people we have, forgetting that they are gifts and that only in the hands of the One Who gave them will they be safe.

A light that follows all my way. . . that relights my candle when it is flickering, that shows the path though all is dark. A light that never goes out, for it is the light of the Father, a light against which all other lights are as shadows.

And it is this light that shines in us, the people of God. We have no light of our own. It is this borrowed ray that lights up our smiles, that encourages those around us, that draws its strength and its brightness from the one true Light.

Do not fear your candle going out. There is light enough and to spare, if only you ask for it.

A joy that seeks me through pain. . . As God’s children, yes, we choose joy, but sometimes the darkness about us is so great, the oppression so heavy, that we do not know even which way to turn to begin seeking for that joy.

And it is then that I imagine the Father seeking us out, holding the light high so that we can find our way, and when we at last feel Him near us, how can there be anything but joy, even when all the world around us lies in pain and darkness? He promised to never leave us alone, and He does not break His promises.

I love the last few lines of that stanza. . . “I trace the rainbow through the rain and feel the promise is not vain that morn shall tearless be.” A reference perhaps to Psalm 30:5. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” And perhaps also a reference to that final morning which no night will follow, when “God shall wipe away all tears from [our] eyes.” (Revelation 21:4)

Beautiful.

A cross that lifts up my head. . . that I dare not hide from, that I must take up if the promises of God are to be mine. My own glory laid in the dust, my own will broken, my own life forfeited for the life of One far greater, a life that can only rise up in me when my own is laid down.

“And from the ground there blossoms red life that shall endless be.” Blood upon the ground, a testament to the Life given for me. A Life that conquers death and offers itself everlasting. And perhaps it speaks of my own blood as well, the blood of my will, sacrificed at last so that life eternal can bloom up in me.

Poetry. . . it’s just words strung together, line upon line, and yet it speaks so powerfully. My own words here cannot do it justice, so read it again, from the love to the cross, and let it whisper to your soul. It doesn’t need my explanations, my faltering attempts to put into my own words that which was already put into words.

It speaks for itself, and what it says is beautiful.