Ascending heights all mount in glory,
A saddle of the earth here ruled,
And there so highly lifted up: a cross,
The crown of all such escapades,
The beauty in the bricks and gothic face,
The light that grants the world to see,
That is the one who made its horror majesty.

Each corner of this human condition,
All mysteries of strength and servitude,
Of lowliness and rumbling renown,
Find final glory in one glorious life,

Our Lord perfecting this limped gait of ours,
Swept up from womb to roman cross and grave,
Through laughter and great sorrows' claws,
He took the depths of us and set them true.

Now sharing in His death,
To welcome in His life:
The water is far deeper,
Than shallows would so plead,
Behind the meager pool,
Lies weighty tragic sleep,
Truly the old self is entombed,
Much more the new unshackeled then!

He took on weakness for His strength,
His fragrance marred with such a stench,
That weak men would His true strength know,
Call bankrupt every effort of their own.

The new life born in victory,
What cost and broken tragedy,
Alight with glory burns etern',
The mustard seed of grace but kern',
Which in its sprout puts green to shame,
The flowers stand abashed lame,
Man pulled in his weak mortal seat,
To splendor of immortal feat,
Up to the zoe grande and true,
Our Lord the dazzling firstfruit grew,
The life of God that became light,
To us the hope, the way, our sight!
So glory be and ever be!
To Him the Slain King risen free.

Steeped in unordinary tales for now,
The converging of past on past yet still,
The moment of all history that press-
-es down immediate like all the rolls,
Of deepest lakes when moved from deep at root,
All time will never be the same or was,
Without the crowning scar deep at its breast,
From where the Prince Of Glory died.
The very world hangs nailed upon those nails,
The very time a cloth on such a barb.

Unpassing from this age,
Your glory's truer than a memory,
No second death will touch Your name,
Embedded on the minds of thoughtless shrubbery,

How much more at reason's root,
The canvas of Your moving eyes,
The meekness of Your face born out,
On mocking sneers that spurn the greatest love of every world,

Yet You would be undone to turn such sneers to deepest agony,
The kind to rock the soul and ruin but its truest light,
To spare by mercy those You'd take as friends,
To weep as they are made all right.

Confess my weary sole,
Death to the weighty flesh,
Leaves lightness as a toll,
The wages swapped, what bless!

Condescension from the highest peak,
The lofty mount that pats the head of distant space,
Transcending all of time and every whisper of decay,
Our Lord from there descends.

And folding every pristine robe,
Firmly placing down eternal jewels,
Collapsing glory into feeble frame,
To sit in dust with us!

The chorus of a sold out heart,
In multitudes with adoration,
Joining each to their own part,
In open praise and celebration,

Praise to Him enthroned above,
Praise to Him who swoops below,
Who humbles now Himself to us,
Who takes on every feeble frame,
To hang for us and rise our mighty champion.

Find rest you weary soul,
The Lord has promised so,
When walking seems a heavy business,
Turn from yourself to His great throne,
Look squarely at the one ever beside,
On Him more weight than you could know,
Your heaviness on Him that you would find His rest.

The dusk before the truest dawn,
Which proceeds masterfully each day,
This day of grace and hope for all,
That your dear saviour died for you,
Before you even heard His name,
Before you uttered cries aloud,
He'd stepped into a feeble frame,
To hoist the essence of each man,
Up with himself and through the grave,
So that we'd be forever changed.

In every trial I see you there,
My Lord in agony and shame,
At the picture of you lifted up,
Just looking I am cured again,
What news is this, this blessed God,
Submit Himself to pain?
The prince for whom all stars daren't stop,
For whom oceans daren't the same,
For whom all the riches fall unworthy,
Drew near to us, in meekness came.

With overdrawn strength, by grace we stand,
Though feeble legs belie, our hope is poorly put in legs,
But better in a cross that marks,
The place of greatest comfort and distress,
That He who gives the wind to strength,
Would breathe one last, yet now!
More fully strength is named in Him, our strength.

With Him we died and in Him we rise,
Of old no sniff or scent,
Of chains no rust or clank,
Of sin no sting and hades meek and breached,
Oh praise the Living Lord!
Oh praise Him with your lives,
He gives grace to the humble,
And wretched - more grace!
Oh praise the Living Christ!

Hidden in the perfect man,
What glory far too good for me,
To know my God as father now,
To know my God would purchase me,
What glory far too good for me!
That He would nurse my sickness through,
That He would hold me close when I am cold,
What glory far too good for me,
Forgiven when I pain my soul,
Comforted when myself dismay.

The chirping birds frame trees in sound,
Now here we stand when Grace abound,
In these I see a glory woven,
My purchase at the seat of God,
His body taut on wood and shame,
Divisions broken at His name,
I see the thick oil painterly clouds,
It's beauty now to me so rich,
For all is mine for I am His,
Now He is mine, what more is this?

The Lord our shepherd,
Stiller of our hurried bleating,
He set us free from barbs,
And bristles - free from rigid troughs,
To open meadows new and greener,
By crystal waters - our refreshing,
To enter His rest.

By whose stripes are we healed?
To whom have we been delivered?
I am dead to my cruel master,
For glory my redeemer lives!

It is the Christ, Jesus,
By His scars I am made whole,
By His blood I know peace with God,
And I have been delivered to righteousness.

Allegiance to the King,
Not earthly but divine,
Become a babe and fell in line,
So forever I can sing.

All glory to the throne,
Preeminent in all ways,
For He alone was slain,
So I am clean and known.

A day of praise,
To One far higher than I,
Who stepped down so low,
He took on flesh and tears,
He bore my death,
And crushed my fear.

Becoming a friend of time,
A companion to cross far plains,
To trek long hills in metal snakes,
He goes by many names,
But orders chaos all the same,
Faithful Logos, Prince of Peace,
Upon which things rest and constitute,
This mighty time to hold all things together.

I behold His face, my risen God,
This perfect love that wrecks my soul,
I see it in my brothers' eyes,
Glory upon glory upon glory,
It's majesty that fills up overflowing,
Crying out the praises of the lamb.

The aroma of Christ has come,
Make haste, make room,
He comes, He comes,
Dressing us with wisdom pearls,
Adorning us with holy tears,
He strikes our hearts for holiness,
He calls our names and future hopes,
He calls us out to greater things,
So I say to my Lord: Beautiful one,
Compassionate and faithful is your name,
You are adorned with glory forever,
Have mercy on me, have mercy.

Great Prince of Peace,
Adorned in glory,
Bronzed and steadfast,
Your kingdom claimed in foreign land,

Transcendent Heaven's Lamb,
Adorned in horns and cuts for me,
Tender and worthy,
Your kingdom brought with precious blood.

What good news is this?
That contorts wise eyes,
And lights the strong ablaze in rage,
Calling all to fall humble at the feet of a carpenter,
On a wooden construct not His own,

Yet it is on our construct He was pinned,
One we cast with gold and silver,
One we lusted after with wayward gaze,
One we formed from our ground bones and ashes,

Self destroyers.
Vile murderes.

Yet He hangs for us,
What good news is this?
He would do so for me?
He would do so for you?

To beauty He hangs ugly,
To strength He hangs weak,
To wisdom He dies a foolish king,
No... in Him such things are perfected.

Broken body,
Outpoured blood,
Sustenance for a feeble soul,
Salvation for a hungry people,
Great rising joy for all the world,
Praise You for You did not spare,
A hand or leg but gave it all,
Your body crushed,
My soul redeemed.

Your hand spans the cosmos,
Saviour into the depths of history,
Leaving freed captives in the waking trail,
What love is this?
That does not relent,
That does not discriminate,
That bears pain as it's crown,
And self sacrifice like a bejewelled sceptre.

Our redeemer lives,
Bronzed and holding out His hands,
To grasp creation and all twisted powers,
He holds them by their throats,
Their pulses through His mangled palms,
They dare not blink apart His commands,
They only twitch for final good,

Yet we shall walk in faithful steps,
For we cannot see such lofty things,
Only glancing touches in the mortal dust,
And know a loving father's mighty wings,
Carry us through painful rust,
That seems to eat and leave void in wake,
But we shall fear and love the one who redeems the soul.

Jesus, I wish to ask you why you are so beautiful,
Yet such a question in its simplest form,
Is answered by a hefty pondering,
Are not all beautiful things so, because they seem a smidge like you?

Just a smidge like you:
And flowers take the breath away,
And smiles melt the heart,
And sunsets turn the hazy day to arresting clarity.

You are beautiful as brute fact,
Wholly good and just,
Wholly caring and amusing,
Wholly love and truth.

Wholly beautiful.

Beside a quiet tree he reads,
Sitting in the weeping branches enshrouded,
They seem to slowly tumble down,
He holds the keys to life and death.

Wisdom and power sit open in front of him,
Their pages are splayed out and pale brown as if stained by tea,
Before him they flow momentary from his existence not preceding,
He is Himself the perfect communication of the invisible one.

As he drenches the surroundings with his presence,
It becomes simple that he is the purpose and substance of existence,
Such notions of power and wisdom do not reach his depths,
He holds both galaxies and hearts of men in his eyes.

Oh what’s that,
It seems I’ve got maths in my mind,
It speaks of a great design,
The language of all creation,
He speaks the particles into motion,
His mind behind the oceans,
And every star and every orbit,
To the cool rush from a lovely sorbet.

Oh what’s that,
It seems I’ve got maths in my mind,
As I sit and try to rhyme,
He sits in the depths outside of time,
Thinking every fold of reality before even a sign,
Calculating the very sublime,
And placing his word in the flesh of mankind.

It was the greatest outpouring,
Far more than when He poured numbers into the chaos,
Far more than when He drenched the land in purpose,
Far more than when He carved his image into the dust,
All of it into meek flesh,
To shatter the chains of death.

Wide eyed and stupefied,
I wonder and quake,
I revel and mumble,
Awed in his wake.

He's glorious, you see,
Good and oh so gracious,
He's precious to me,
His house is oh so spacious.

So revel and quake,
Come with me, sit still,
And honour his name,
He is worthy of praise.

The wax drips,
Lining its heated brow,
Dripping from the edge of its gaze,
Snaking round its neck,
And pooling on it's collar.

A crown of radiance,
Sits gloriously above.

It grows shorter day by day,
Dropping down, and down,
Then down some more,
Till it falls among the lowly lights,
They had been in darkness,
Long extinguished.

Then it comes,
A new light to those chained in death.

It descendes deeper still,
A glowing pool in its wake,
Dull and dead,
And darkness seems to hide its face,
And the storms still.

In the dead of night,
A quiet ember slips,
Igniting these lowly lights again,
In a cloud of flame and praise abundant,
A light for all who know their plight.

Again a crown of radiance sits,
Gloriously above and higher still.