They call me Emily.
I'm 20 and I'm slightly addicted to coffee.
I am more surprised than anyone that I've gotten from there to here.
Feel free to say hello.
He was despised and rejected by men;
a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.
All we like sheep have gone astray;
we have turned—every one—to his own way;
and the Lord has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.
We are still children. We are still constantly self-absorbed, as you scream from the heavens that there is so much more.
It’s never been all about me but all I can think of are my wants and my needs and it’s so easy to believe my feelings are the beginning and end to everything.
I’ve got to get out of this body; let me into your hands.
With my eyes turned inward I can’t see past deception, this perspective has to end.
I’ve never been the end.
Yet you walked there on a cross for me. You shed your blood down the street for me and now we call it “Holy Week” when it looks a lot like me taking the very air I breathe for granted.
And there we go about me.
And you knew with each step I’d be right here again.
And it is Holy. You are the still only one truly holy.
But now there’s this revolution that says because you gave your whole life for me I could now have glimpses of you in me. I can be resurrected just like you did on that late Sunday evening.
I can find new life despite every failure and sin and bouts of selfish blasphemy; now with these lungs all I can do is sing praises unto thee.
Praise be to the King that paid it all that we might breathe.