Beautiful

For those days when I need a reminder of who my savior is

Beautiful
By Phil Wickham

I see Your face in every sunrise
The colors of the morning are inside Your eyes
The world awakens in the light of the day
I look up to the sky and say
You’re beautiful

I see Your power in the moonlit night
Where planets are in motion and galaxies are bright
We are amazed in the light of the stars
It’s all proclaiming who You are
You’re beautiful, You're beautiful

I see you there hanging on a tree
You bled and then you died and then you rose again for me
Now you are sitting on Your heavenly throne
Soon we will be coming home
You’re beautiful, you're beautiful

When we arrive at eternity’s shore
Where death is just a memory and tears are no more
We’ll enter in as the wedding bells ring
Your bride will come together and we’ll sing
You’re beautiful, You're beautiful, You're beautiful

I see Your face, You're beautiful, You're beautiful, You're beautiful
I see Your face, You're beautiful, You're beautiful, You're beautiful
I see Your face, I see Your face
I see Your face, You’re beautiful, You’re beautiful, You’re beautiful

The Maker

There have been countless times where God has whispered inspiration to me - for my writing - through the words of others. A few weeks ago, my mum came to me with some advice. As she thought about a situation I was going through, the image of a puzzle came to her. She told me I couldn't force the last piece if it wasn't made to fit - that maybe, there was another piece for me to find. My heart couldn't let that concept go until I dwelt on it a little more. This was the result:

The Maker

She runs a hand over each painted piece, fingers feeling the smooth wood of their meandering edges. They are scattered before her - moon, sun, stars. She has already found the framework. Royal blues, midnight skies. A determined mind has connected. She has boxed in her dreams, shielding them from a hungry universe. I have no room to breathe here.

She runs a hand over each painted piece, desperately searching for the answer. Three sided with a splash of deep green youth. She slots it in. Examining the horizon, she stretches out and grabs another. Three sided, dotted with a pale hue of blossoming promise. She smiles. Her safe haven is fitted together, the rest a jumble of spare parts, waiting to be chosen, waiting to finish this puzzle.

She runs a hand over each painted piece seeking comfort. Everything else has been carefully accounted for.

I have no room to breathe here.

The picture is there now. She is almost ready. It is a fragmented picture though. She grasps the last painted peace, a reflection of the soul, and tries to settle it into its empty home. She tugs, she pushes, she jambs it between past and present, but her future rejects this shard - no matter how much force she expends, there is a hole in her puzzle. The russet of wisdom and the sunny orange of faith shed light on her truth.

I am nearly done forming her, in all her perfect beauty. I hand her the missing peace. She leans into me and I wrap my arms around her. For now the puzzle is incomplete. But I am the maker, not she. I have captured her newfound trust in me. When the time is right, I will hand her a heart of the utmost brilliance. For now, my love stands in the gap, filling all voids. I am the puzzle maker.

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