I Chased My Healing
I chased my healing hard
And harried,
Down lengths of longing,
Through labyrinths of pain.
I chased my healing
As if I deserved it
(There is no one righteous, no, not one),
As if I were worthy of it
(If we claim to be without sin,
we deceive ourselves).
As if I earned it,
(Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord).
Frantic, I was,
And reckless in my desire,
Raging from church to church,
Altar call to altar call,
Always leaving unaltered, and calling,
"You, who rose with healing in Your wings,
where are you?"
Tired of waiting for angels to stir the waters,
I have sought cot-bearers to break through the roof.
I have shoved through crowds of doubt
To reach Him, thinking,
"If I can just touch the hem of His garment,
If I can just touch the hem,
If I can just—"
Touch lepers, He did. So why not me?
My healing rests in God's great hand,
His fingers curled over it. I try
To pry them open
With anger, tears and pleas—Oh! Please!
But desperation is such a poor tool.
And I recall that Jesus waited two days
Before going to the tomb of Lazarus.
Still, the weight of His waiting drops me to my knees.
Christ bled my healing at Calvary. It ran
Down the length of His body,
Blackening the earth below.
Therefore, I am whole in the continuous now of God
(By His wounds, I am healed),
But not yet in the momentary now of me
(Working out my salvation with fear
and trembling).
The already-but-not-yet of His Kingdom
holds me, hopeful.
And so I chase my healing no more,
But wait, with joyful expectation,
For it to step forward and claim me.
I chased my healing hard
And harried,
Down lengths of longing,
Through labyrinths of pain.
I chased my healing
As if I deserved it
(There is no one righteous, no, not one),
As if I were worthy of it
(If we claim to be without sin,
we deceive ourselves).
As if I earned it,
(Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord).
Frantic, I was,
And reckless in my desire,
Raging from church to church,
Altar call to altar call,
Always leaving unaltered, and calling,
"You, who rose with healing in Your wings,
where are you?"
Tired of waiting for angels to stir the waters,
I have sought cot-bearers to break through the roof.
I have shoved through crowds of doubt
To reach Him, thinking,
"If I can just touch the hem of His garment,
If I can just touch the hem,
If I can just—"
Touch lepers, He did. So why not me?
My healing rests in God's great hand,
His fingers curled over it. I try
To pry them open
With anger, tears and pleas—Oh! Please!
But desperation is such a poor tool.
And I recall that Jesus waited two days
Before going to the tomb of Lazarus.
Still, the weight of His waiting drops me to my knees.
Christ bled my healing at Calvary. It ran
Down the length of His body,
Blackening the earth below.
Therefore, I am whole in the continuous now of God
(By His wounds, I am healed),
But not yet in the momentary now of me
(Working out my salvation with fear
and trembling).
The already-but-not-yet of His Kingdom
holds me, hopeful.
And so I chase my healing no more,
But wait, with joyful expectation,
For it to step forward and claim me.