Praise Him who first sang the great theme of creation, and Who’s voice echoes down from glory to glory into the least of us, so we might be echoes of His singular Glory.

Praise Him who knit this theme into the foundations of the law so there might be harmony and order. The branches of trees echo the veins of leaves, the branching of rivers the veins of men.

Praise Him who loved what He made, even when it hated Him. He followed the theme as it dropped through minor keys, allied Himself with our dirty veins, and became a frail, paltry thing; a thing of blood and dust; a thing such that if the least of His angels breathed on it, it would crumble into ashes. He bound Himself to us so we might be bound to Him, He stepped into our shit to raise us up out of it.

Praise God who bound Himself not only to our humanity but also our filth and our sickness - He went down to death, the death of a criminal, death by suffocation and torture, and our sickness died with Him; He rises, and we rise with Him also!