I will be that girl, Jesus, who sits at your feet, my tears not pure enough to fall. But they do, Jesus. My heart aching, tears blearing the image of your toes, my hair falling down, trying to hide my face.
And You let me bow low, and You lift up my head, your hand touching my chin, inviting me to meet your gaze.
You look into me, your eyes melting deep. I can’t look at You, my King, yet I can’t turn away.
Oh, Jesus, keep your eyes on me.
Write Me a love song, child. Write Me a love song with your life. Write Me a song for Me to sing with you, from the love I give you, from the heart of gratitude I place within you. I saw all the darkness covering you, and I wiped it all away. I took my hand and wiped it off your shoulders. You kneel at my feet, my daughter, my sister, with light that shines because what I did was enough.
Honor Me with listening close, with trusting Me with these days. How many more do you have? You have enough to do the work I have given for you to do. You have enough days to write a love song to Me with these days, this gift. A love song I will sing through your heart.
Sing it with your life, child.
Let every touch, every look, be a love song back to Me.
You bow at My feet, tears wetting my feet as you read of the woman, my beloved, redeemed woman of my heart, come before Me and give Me all she had.
Give Me all you have, child. Give Me all you have. Look what I make of it.
Trust Me with the things that seem so small. Why is anything small? What is small? What is significant? How are you to decide? Let Me decide. Just go, in steadfast obedience, trusting Me. Just trusting.
Sisters, my heart pours out over the pages of Luke 7. I see the woman there, perfume poured out, her stunning beauty, aching for His touch, with full abandonment of self. And I search my heart — asking Jesus to search me — to see if there is anything that holds me back from being fully present to Him, worshipping, at His feet.
Pour us out for You, Jesus. Let us write that love song with You.
Where are you, sisters — in Luke 7: 36-50, these pages of his heart?