He is depicted as an elderly man,
With long flowing locks,
Riding upon the clouds
All these ornate cathedrals, cast in gold and crowded with images from scripture.
All this for a man
A man who was God
A man, like so many of his time,
Was crucified.
A rather common punishment
For the most hardened of criminals.
His story was one that shouldn't have made it out of Jerusalem.
He could have been deemed
"Just another self-proclaimed Messiah"
"Just another crucified"
Yet, as I gaze upon the seemingly endless interiors proclaiming His name,
His truth is affirmed.
Paintings, sculptures, undeniable works of art,
All exuding the indescribable, unparalleled truth
Of salvation
Of grace
Of redemption.
He lives not only in these extravagant temples, in these wealthy cities.
He lives in the slums of countries that have no running water.
He lives in the makeshift huts
Where people gather to praise Him.
No frescos, no gold statues, no striking organs and harpsichord.
Just filled with the greatest symphony of all:
The song of His people;
A never ending composition
With no key,
No tempo,
No form.
I stare into the face of God
But His image is not here on the ceilings of cathedrals
He is in my soul;
A battered man who's death was anything but picturesque.
Yet still, the most beautiful image one could ever fathom.
