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They left Him, buried Him in a grave, left to become dust, and He took it - my sin and
my shame. And by all definitions shed a grace that should be called unjust, and it's not
His death that's confusing me, it's not a lack of life that's consuming me - I've seen
death before. My eyes are no stranger to ***, betrayal and endless war. See, what perplexes
me is the basic simplicity of how He took my sins upon that tree. He was bound and thrown
into a grave, left to become dust and people say that He has the power to save? A resurrection
they say! He rose from the dead? This guy just gets up and walks away from His death
bed? And, what I wouldn't give to climb out of my own grave, this hole that I've been
digging while trying to save my own life, my pride, my control and my fame. But this
time, I've been dying, rotting away, turning into dust, while, above a Savior beckons me
and calls me by name. See, while I say with my mouth that I believe in this resurrection,
I keep digging with my own hands, as if I had some power to change directions. He says,
"Put the shovel down, with your hurt and your brokenness, I already rose from that grave,
and bridged the distance of hopelessness." Maybe the reason I don't believe in this holy
resurrection is because deep down I'm scared to death to concede the power, control and
self-protection. I'm afraid of what may be left in my heart after you're through, tired
of feeling like day in the empty tomb, left to just dirt, cloth and dust, yet, this is
a fulfillment of a promise of a God who is holy and just. His relentless pursuit of my
heart like an unquenchable thirst, His love for His creation, a balloon ready to burst.
He calls out to me, "stop running, and you'll see, I'll breathe new life into you, like
dust, floating in the breeze."