Sometimes I forget how good the altar is.
From a distance, all I can see is the blood,
So I turn and I run as my stomach turns and I choke on
tears—
This? This is good? This blood and this death are good?
I cannot bear this weight of surrender,
For it aches deeper than loss,
It churns in my mind as the voices awaken and yawn and say,
Here? Again? You fool.
You failed, you cannot
let go, this is all you have left.
No.
You lie, voices of the depths.
You lie and do not tell the truth.
For the blood that runs off the altar is grace,
Pouring endlessly around me and through me,
Pulsing through my veins, expanding my lungs with every
breath.
Loss is not the end, but the beginning,
For when I take all I have and compare it to that which
stands in front of the altar,
The One who died upon it, yet rose again,
I shall cast everything down without a second thought,
For the beauty of this Savior is beyond all compare.
It is enough, oh Lord, it is enough.
You are enough.
And if all the voices in my head crowd around,
Shouting all of the blasphemies that cloud my vision and try
to bring me into the wasteland of confusion,
I know the Voice that drowns them out, and I know that it is
good,
And the Word that is spoken brings life abundantly,
Not death.
For every seed that is buried produces life in its death,
And I know that falling into this earth is not loss,
For what does it profit a man if he gains even the fullness
of the earth,
If death has claim on his soul?
But I press forward, casting aside all other weights and cares,
I put on the altar my hopes and my dreams,
I surrender them in deep-seated hope,
For after death,
Life.
