What crazy love is this, that you would assume the repetition of my sin? Surely you see something I don’t, because this stain won’t come out.
I am forever shaded in grey and my intentions murky and misguided. There can be no finer splendor than what you abided in; a brilliant sunrise to my stormy dusk. Yours was and is a containing of our whimsy, not once and again, but a Kingdom real and true.
And yet you left it.
It is surely some cosmic fate you took on as your own, when any other King would be content to embrace what was merely good in us; to spare the righteous and cast the sinners away, dooming them to hell.
Yet you witnessed the glory in each and all; sons and daughters you called us. Such was your love that there will never be an earthly equal; such was the inherent beauty of your creation that you would take on the very pain you fashioned. The nerve endings, the flesh, the tendons – all of it under your watchful eye, someday to know it frail and torn.
This was what you knew when you became small, insignificant, dependent on another. Time would contain thirty three of our years but time was and is of no concern to you, so you felt the severity of your plan when you designed it. You assumed it all upon your entrance into this wrecked dimension. I wonder if you still bear the agony when I rub out this spot; when I hide it and pretend it won’t consume me.
So what does Christmas matter but to set the stage – one which renders a prologue to a battle of three long days? You knew it would take thirty three years, but those three days, and only those three, would finish it once and for all. You knew your adversary and his resolve. You scripted it and you began it. In your measure of eternity, it was done already.
But you still knew you would be bruised and beaten and battered, for your opponent wouldn't go lightly. Each and every failure of this mortal man was to be thrust upon you – branding you and tainting you.
Until you emerged victorious. And white as snow, for someone such as me.
What crazy love is this?
