Several years ago as Easter neared, I sat penning heart words on a front porch swing in the town I’d known as a school girl.

Who would I be in the week that was sacrifice, passion, betrayal, heartbreak, grace, redemption, love? Oh, Love!

Before I began to write, I sought a farm where I could capture a picture of a spring lamb. We piled in the truck, rumbling toward a local farmer’s pasture.

I propped my lens on the fence post and snapped what I could, but my heart sank. These sheep were all matted with muddy, mottled wool. Where was that pure, white lamb I sought?

As I changed angles and settings, I heard a lamb at my feet bleating. And bleating. And BLEATING. He never left me in my distraction with the wandering flock.

He remained.

I finally lowered my lens. And standing right before me, waiting while I searched with my narrow focus, was the most precious sight. He sought me. Pure. White. Perfect.

I cried as I raised the camera with new focus. All on him.

He sought me. And he remained.

Oh, indeed, He sought me. And He remained.

I carry this image and that moment in the garden of my heart.

The words below were poured in the years between.  Walk with me to the week that is Passion?

 

Grace steps approach.

Promises unveil.

Hosanna rises.

And falls.

Heckling pierces the Son of God.

The world clamors loud with self.

And we who would follow,

We leave Him alone…

Again…

As we sleep to our calling.

Time and again, wonder aches,  who would I be?

Questioning the soul depths raw.

Who would I be in the passion that was Christ?

To be John, at His feet, thundering soul… beloved,

Simon of Cyrene, grappling—with strength unknown—the world’s sin anchor,

Mary, weeping motherhood from her womb’s heart

Ah, but, I… I am the rugged weight heaped—heaved.

 

Yet the sun rises.

And He waits.

The Lamb pure

He waits for me in love which knows not beginning nor end.

His call soft carries across pasture dew-fresh

Of heaven-to-earth expanse.

His eyes soft rest upon my own.

 

Even in our lack of vision,

Until the clamoring stills—hushed,

Until our hearts ease tender,

Until our ears tune to His beckoning…

Until then…

Waits the Lamb.

 

In the dawn of His Glory

Our eyes rise

To meet our Savior.

 

Let our voices peal praise!

It is Christ come for us.

Hosanna rise!

 

With a hushed heart in the garden,

Suz