At Last, He has Come

I read it every year. It’s my prelude to Easter. It gets me every single time. Tears well up when I read the story of the Troubadour who sings his Star-Song to the world. Every year when I take the book, The Singer, off my shelf, I wonder if it will have the same effect on me as years past.

Today was no different. Chapter IX got to me again. It’s the story of the little girl lying along the roadside with twisted limbs, her only mode of mobility, a single wooden crutch. And, my heart swells up for those who are crippled in mind, body, and spirit.

But, the Singer stops, bends down to be close to the little girl. Touching her limp hand, he then draws the coarse fabric of her tunic back to reveal her legs. He reaches out to touch her small, disfigured foot.

I’m reminded of he who is my Troubadour, too.  The one who knows the suffering of this little one. He, too, has scarred hands and feet. He knows what it is to be a part of the fellowship of the suffering.

And, my heart wells up with gratitude to the Singer who sang me his Star-Song many years ago. When I, too, was but a girl.

Though I didn’t have a mangled body, I was lying by the roadside crippled by a low sense of self-worth, wondering what life had in store for me. 

Then the Singer came. He too had been mocked and made to believe he was unworthy. World Hater had done his part to convince him so, though the Singer knew it wasn’t true. His Father-Spirit had told him so.

I heard his Star-Song, the hope of redemption from World Hater’s merciless destruction. The melody rang true of all things new. A bit hesitant, the Star-Song drew me in. I, like the little girl lying by the roadside in despair, felt him scooping me up in his arms. He looked into my eyes. His smile gave me hope of a special future. While the Star-Song filled the air, my spirit could feel the sun penetrate through the darkness and I was able to freely run, taking in my surroundings with a joy I had never known. His Song filled every part of my being, and I danced, fully alive because of the Singer.

Every year it’s the same. My heart wells up in gratitude. The Troubadour came to me and set me free.

Untouchables with bandages

heard the healing song and came to health:

The crippled and the blind.

Sick of soul

Sick of heart

 Sick of hate

Sick of mind.

Everywhere the music went, full health came.

And all the way, men everywhere

were whispering that the long-awaited

Troubadour had come.

“It is he,” they said, "at last 
he’s come. Praise the Father-Spirit, he has come.”

*The Singer is a book that I received in my late teens. Author, Calvin Miller, retells the story of Jesus in a beautiful poetic narrative that gets me every time. (InterVarsity Press, 1975, pg. 51-51)