It was a cheerless script,
that mortal tale—
claiming to be my past, my story.
A litany of missed chances, condemnation, and regret.
With paragraphs of pain too graphic to forget.
I didn't know there were different pages, an altogether different book
Until I was compelled to look—
And saw my name written on a cover, pure white,
And felt my heart leap up—
... could it be true?
The chapter titles were startling, new—
Yet something deep inside ... remembered:
"You are my beloved daughter, in whom I am well pleased."
"Rejoice and be exceedingly glad."
"You are the light of the world."
On each page, irrefutable proof—
of my beautiful selfhood,
untainted substance,
resounding innocence,
eternal worth.
Past and future, dissolved into now,
One seamless account, fresh and alive.
A volume of love, bearing Love's pure inscription,
The real story ... by the Author of our lives.
—
(Quotations paraphrase Luke 3:22, Matt. 5:12, 14)
