This world, this earth is not my home. (Oh blessed hope, oh hiraeth that quickens now my breath.)
Her much hailed princes and her thrones are void of any power to change the heart or bring about shalom. The haughty eyes of man so full of plans they’re bulging out of place, cannot contain the fullness of the lowliness of grace. Jesus, lowly Jesus, you left your throne on high to wear our shoes, to feel our woes, and cry with us our cries. Mockers mock. Jeerers jeer. Oppressors loudly rise. To such as these oh naked, beaten, silent, Savior, you did submit to count us each your prize.
Art by Trevor Doud