Two Minutes to Resurrection Sunday

Two dozen eggs boiling on the stove, some for deviling, some for decorating. Nine ungodly pounds of ham already in the slow cooker, waiting for the fixin's (that's next), ready to be plugged in tomorrow morning to [slow] cook while I'm at my morning services (attending one, serving one, as they say). A loaf of bread rising in a warm oven. Strawberries ready to be washed and served with sour cream and brown sugar; peppermint tea waiting to be brewed, sweetened, and chilled; a tablecloth needing to be ironed. Tokens of hospitality, fitting for the day we celebrate the greatest hospitality ever offered to undeserving - often unwilling - guests.

I did my shopping last minute, as usual, and drove home a moment ago, anticipating tomorrow's celebration and all it represents. Since Thursday I've been mulling over the weightiness of the cross, with snippets of song the soundtrack for my meditation: "It was my sin that held Him there until it was accomplished...Oh, praise the One who paid my debt...Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"

I was there, and I ought to tremble, and not just sometimes. Friday's story should be familiar to me, but never common.

On tonight's drive, Damien Rice happened to be the soundtrack, and his praise was certainly not directed to the One who paid his debt. But just at the moment that I noticed how big and full the moon is tonight, hanging low and silvery and tempting me to stop and admire instead of go home and cook...just at that moment came the words of praise: "Can't take my eyes off of you!" The words resonated and my heart sang along - and not to the moon!

Oh, Creator of beauty, Giver of life, I often take my eyes off of You. I want to be so captivated by who You are that I cannot look away. Did I say that I want to leave it all behind? Because I do - I want to forsake this body of death! I am the crowd calling for a criminal instead of clinging to You. I am the Pharisees, seeking their own glory instead of Yours. I am the disciples, falling asleep when You asked them to pray. I am Pilate, fearing man instead of trusting You. I have betrayed You and denied You; I have run away from the cost. But Your dying breath bought me life and the veil is torn in two. I am forgiven. It is finished. You paid it all. I am Yours.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer.
But this I know with all my heart:
His wounds have paid my ransom.