Father of the fatherless, Rememberer of all those overwhelmed by questions, mad heavens, oceans of desolate tears. Comforter of the comfortless, this is our God whose dwelling place is holy, whose dwelling place is home, whose home is dwelling in us.
‘come. come home. come home to Me My child.’
with that house of crumbs you wear, jarred jar of clay come home. come see the way your likeness is like God, the way your face reflects perfection in a fiery sea of glass. the cold bone of winter has been broken and blood has washed you: white as the snow dove, true as spring’s laughter, pure as the butterfly which bursts from the cocoon carefree with wonder. be free. burst from the comfortable skins which so easily straightjacket your wings.
‘unfold them and come. come home to Me My child.’
for nothing remains which can fold you back into the grave where once you were grey with resignation. there is nothing: neither sky nor the deep, not the double-tongue nor ecstasy, the shameful crutch, angelic hands, heart-mingling—no thing can separate you now from how He sees you and is moved, sees and is well pleased. yes, right now, just as you are jarred – regal son, royal daughter – He is moved and He approves of you and turns your ashes into a crown, your bitter fight into the dawn. He has stood under your pain. look, He is pierced.
so come find hope in His wounds. standing in your ruins, you are perfectly understood. and He has called you very good. He has called you very good. He has called you. in Yeshua you are. at home in Him at home in you.