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Cuter With My Mouth Closed
Sunday, February 29, 2004
 
I don't think my friend will mind, if I pass on to you an email that she sent me. This was one of the few things that moved me today, and was suitable for a Sunday post. We saw The Passion of The Christ together on Friday, and I guess it put the following prayer into perspective.

Email:
hello brandon...
So i found this in this book at home that i'd read awhile ago and just loved
and i thought i might share. in light of the movie we just saw i thought it was
especially touching, so i wanted to share!
this is from the book God Came Near by Max Lucado
it's titled, Mary's Prayer

God. O infant-God. Heaven's fairest child. Conceived by the union of devine
grace with our disgrace. Sleep well.
Sleep weel. Bask in the coolness of this night bright with diamonds. Sleep
well, for the heat of anger simmers nearby. Enjoy the silence of the crib, for
the noise of confusion rumbles in your future. Savor the sweet safety of my
arms, for a day is soon coming when I cannot protect you.

Rest well, tiny hands. For though you belong to a king, you will touch no
satin, own no gold. You will grasp no pen, guide no brush. No, your tiny
hands are reserved for works more precious:
to touch a leper's wound,
to wipe a widow's weary tear,
to claw the ground of Gethsemane.

Your hands so tiny, so tender, so white, clutched tonight in an infant's fist.
They aren't destined to hold a sceptor nor wave from a palace balcony. They
are reserved instead for a Roman spike that will staple them to a Roman cross.
Sleep deeply tiny eyes. Sleep while you can. For soon the blurriness will
clear and you will see the mess we have made of your world.
You will see our nakedness, for we cannot hide.
You will see our selfishness, for we cannot give.
You will see our pain, for we cannot heal.
O eyes that will see hell's darkest pit and witness her ugly prince...sleep,
please sleep; sleep while you can.
Lay still tiny mouth. Lay still mouth from which eternity will speak.
Tiny tongue that will soon summon the dead,
that will define grace
that will silence our foolishness.
Rosebud lips--upon which ride a starborn kiss of forgiveness to those who
believe you, and of death to those who deny you--lay still.
Any tiny feet cupped in the palm of my hand, rest. For many difficult steps
lie ahead for you.
Do you taste the dust of the trails you will travel?
Do you feel the cold sea water upon which you will walk?
Do you wrench at the invasion of the nail you will bear?
Do you fear the steep descent down the spiral staircase into Satan's domain?
Rest, tiny feet. Rest today so that tomorrow you might walk with power.
Rest. For millions will follow in your steps.
And little heart..holy..pumping the blood of life throughout the universe. How
many times will we break you?
You'll be torn by the thorns of our accusations.
You'll be ravaged by the cancer of our sin.
You'll be crushed under the weight of your own sorrow.
And you'll be peirced with the spear of rejection.
Yet in that peircing, in that ultimate ripping of muscle and membrane, in that
final rush of blood and water, you will find rest. Your hands will be freed,
your eyes will see justice, your lips will smile, and you feet will carry you
home.
And there you'll rest again--this time in the embrace of your Father.








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