Sunday, April 15, 2012


"Early morning hath gold bokeh in its mouth."  Ben Frank Lens
photo courtesy of thanker212

His heart beats with redemption’s pulse.  
It’s not about an individual’s happiness or a single man’s pursuit of a woman.  Instead it’s about the rescue of an entire culture—a group of people so distant and so far past saving that only God Himself could look down and have any hope of rescue. 

They are a pitiful lot, this group of refugees He’s chosen.  They have no true home and their wounds are self-inflicted reminders of the choices they’ve made, the places they’ve been, the home they no longer have. 


The list of words tattooed across their flesh continues on and on, their sins called out against pale flesh for all to read.  In the midst of their hopeless mire, He hand picks them time after time, day after day.  

The one with the tattered dress, tattoos of whoredom lining her arms; eyes dull with blackness.  He reaches out and touches her scars, then washes them.  Her tattoos, those she was told would never go away begin to disappear from her skin.  The indelible ink runs and fades away to a puddle at her feet and she fingers her new skin—clear, new, brand new.  It’s the exact thing they told her would never happen.  

A Rescuer has come.  New words appear on her arms, but they are words her eyes have never read, her brain never processed.

“What is the meaning of this word?” she asks.

He explains the intricacies that enumerate beauty.  The sparrow perched on a branch, a new baby’s cry, the sun peeking over the horizon.

“And this word, Beloved.” she points at another spot on her arm.  He traces the outline and begins to tell her of the ways she has been carved into the wall of His heart, so even once it stopped beating He would still carry her name there.

Lastly, her eyes flutter to her wrist where one word shimmers brighter than the others, begging to be noticed as if announcing its eminence…Mine.
She looks into His eyes with knowing and He smiles back.


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