They told me Jesus paid it all, that his death has washed sin away–but is this my story too? Is this the song my soul sings? I sing God’s praises on Sunday mornings along with the rest of the people. But in their voices, I hear something soulful I don’t yet hear in mine. The truth they sing about rings out to the heavens, parts the darkness, lets in the light: a Savior who shed his glory, lived perfectly, and overcame death. An empty grave. An eternal father. 

 

I get it but I don’t truly understand it.

 

Slowly, those sunshine days of bicycles and jump ropes fade into a dream. Now the days stifle me and the years make me weary. Betrayal, illness, grief, death. All the deafening noise screeches in my ears like metal machines. I feel like I've reached the end of myself. All I long for is silence.

 

But my wish isn’t granted. Instead, rising above the shrill racket I hear a melody inviting me into refuge. It is a still small voice, but I can’t ignore it. It calls to me like a loving father, tender yet strong, and sings of being able to make flowers bloom in a barren land. I become aware of the person behind the song, the eternal king who stuns me with his splendor. And my soul declares:

 

Jesus is no longer just a character in the songs I used to sing; 

He is as real as my flesh and blood. 

 

His pierced body is not just a framed image on a wall; 

It has purchased my life.

 

And the grave? It is indeed empty!

 

My days are still hard, but now I have a song that rides above the darkness. A song that tells of the one who paid my debt and helps me face tomorrow. I lift my voice to the Savior who has raised my life from the grave and scraped the power of sin. All the day long–for the rest of my life–I shall praise him! 

 

And one day, when my body lies still and only my soul lives, the darkness will vanish altogether. I will see my Savior face to face and rejoice. In the most real way possible, the hymns we sang long ago will all make perfect sense.

 

Now, this is my story too. This is my song.

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Written by Anne Jones