The Secret Wireless

In the forgiving Word of God the incomprehensible greatness of God, the intolerable glory of His Godhead, the glory of His grace, has appeared, has appeared to eyes that cannot comprehend it even as they gaze upon it.  It has been manifested to hearts that stand in trembling awe of it even as they believe in it.  This grace of which the psalmist sings is no cheap, easy grace, no easy commodity which complacency can casually appropriate.  We can be sure of it, surer of it than of ourselves, than of our own righteousness or our sins or our life or our death.  But we cannot be complacent about it.  Our souls still wait for the Lord, more than watchmen that wait for the morning.  They know the morning will come; they are sure that it will come, and yet they wait for it, and they hail its first graying as a new and wondrous thing. So we wait for the Lord and know that He is Lord and will forgive.  But forgiveness remains the perpetual miracle still. ...

From earth below up to the cross Christ bore our burdens and our loss, And there a full atonement made; gained glory that shall never fade. He enters Zion as her king. The people all his praises sing. "Give honor now to David's son, Hosanna to the holy one." Forth from the temple courts he drove The money changers, lamb, and dove. "My house shall be a house of prayer For all who come and worship there." With schemes and questions did they come To test the right of David's son. He answered all their queries told And showed himself now David's Lord. He prophesied the coming night When none shall work, so filled with fright. No man can know that day or hour. The king will judge in righteous power. In humble dress he washed their feet; Portrayed a love for all to meet. Then gave his body and his blood; A sacrifice of holy food. Betrayed by all he called by name He carried cross and sin and shame. The punishment of man came...

Philosophers have measur’d mountains, Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings, Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains: But there are two vast, spacious things, The which to measure it doth more behove: Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love. Who would know Sinne, let him repair Unto mount Olivet; there shall he see A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair, His skinne, his garments bloudie be. Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain To hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein. Who knows not Love, let him assay And taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike Did set again abroach; then let him say If ever he did taste the like. Love in that liquour sweet and most divine, Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine. --George Herbert ++++++++++++++++++++++

To make a final conquest of all me, Love did compose so sweet an Enemy, In whom both Beauties to my death agree, Joyning themselves in fatal Harmony; That while she with her Eyes my Heart does bind, She with her Voice might captivate my Mind. I could have fled from One but singly fair: My dis-intangled Soul it self might save, Breaking the curled trammels of her hair. But how should I avoid to be her Slave, Whose subtle Art invisible can wreath My fetters of the very Air I breath? It had been easie fighting in some plain, Where Victory might hang in equal choice, But all resistance against her is vain, Who has th'advantage both of Eyes and Voice, And all my Forces needs must be undone, She having gained both the Wind and Sun.         --Andrew Marvell