The Touch of the Master’s Hand
Boyd K. Packer
August 1998
RANSOM
With all my love to the Chief Musician
Elder Boyd K Packer
Far beyond the bluish atlantes where the sun appears to be born; t'was there in transit a solitary and sorrowful stranger, a foreigner fleeing guilt from a distant land.
T'was he there away from his home and his family, lonely found was he, crying silently and bitterly. In the tumult of a great and spacious building, his connection was the nether lands, to him an unknown port.
T'was he there the stranger, humming and suffering in wrecking and harrowing despair. T'was he in anguish of mind, body and soul, tasting his many affliction, darken in asphyxia and confinement, a feeling of a bottomless well.
T'was his guilt his own tormentor for he had not given heed to early correction. His loss was so great and severe, his pain t'was the toil and spoil of a guileful distress.
What he'd done, only few have known. The sting of cruel death t'was he feeling, as the crude effects of an ill chosen deed.
Broken hearten, contrite in spirit the foreigner reflected, the faint view of a dark and obtuse emptiness. T'was the abandonment, the existential vacuum of a goldless soul, the lonely ache of an inner dreadful distemper.
Suddenly, a chilling voice from below amplified was heard parley from above, to him was a voice calling home from hell.
Yet, T'was as Moses and Jonas of old, the diaspora had fled, the shameful scene of his many woeful a spiritual crime. T'was he hiding and fleeting, not in the solace of a dreadful fish or schooling desert, but in the belly of a transatlantic flight.
The distressed foreigner knew well he was seeking death prematurely, he had on him only a one way to nowhere flight.
His return was uncertain and sealed, his destination was to all but God unknown. T'was he before his appointed time heading towards the ancient home, the salem barren terra where his fathers had roamed.
Left behind empty handed he deserted swiftly his family, many his high treasures left him back without a second thought, nor even a suicidal note. They were innocent, perplexed, unawares of his whereabouts, deeds or wayward actions.
Abandoned him they way pass the meridian of the earthly globe, which treasures and heritage had once the benign creator forever and ever bounded to him.
Under the shadows of dense, strange and ominous clouds, contrite and with fear, the foreigner as a warrior mighty contended a force from the unknown. An invisible yet empty but vociferous enemy oscillating and accusing him from the bottomless pit.
T'was the misery call from an accuser's many woeful voice. When in his harrowing despair, left him more breathless, entrusted to an imminent threat. But a closed ear begun to ring the heart pricking but sweet whisper of a yet tender and still small voice.
T'was the loving rumor of that angelic chore from his childhood riding the chariot of a sweet whistling sound. T'was to him the peaceful still barely perceptible small wind, but well known prophetic tone of old.
T'was an unexpected melody whispering the deaf ear of the lonely foreigner what to him became forever a most divine and angelical chant. T'was this the still voice was saying him: there is still time, there is forgetfulness, and yet there is ample pardon for thou also my prodigal son.
The implacable justice refused to take twice on him a charge upon the fate of the sinful stranger. High t'was the cost law demanded to fully quench the stranger's original guilt. But a beloved stranger of a distant century, with mercy galore the debt quotient had he canceled.
When atoning in rush for your deep guilt with great sorrow, with grace he yet advised, go ye yonder and sin never more for thou art my son. In keen view of his watery eyes you were leaving his presence, in sorrow you knew the cost absolute of your guilt was not shallow.
Bitter gel had the cup he'd drank with your sins overflowed. Thus, in the act of kissing goodbye your forehead yonder, you felt a chill of not sober pain in the lips of that distant stranger. Indeed that you knew that he must have fainted as the drunken, when he sipped the the exquisite elixir, the rested lees of that hateful and very bitter vine.
But, t'was not wine of the usual vine that made him quake, even like a drunkard of Ephraim to tremble, t'was the embittered rum of dregs. Such is the most harrowing taste one can venture to swallow, causing pain that summons and liquidate vital organs, the melting pot of the failing reins.
Come thither my dumbfounded stranger, let us meet and you and me by the fire where we will both go to reason together.
Think of drinking broken glass with apple cider; or about the discomfort of passing gal stones overflowing.
Imagine the lumbar tearing pain of child birth of a woman and its oscillating yet incremental labors; or even the hot sting of erupting shingles combined.
No arrow, no javelin, nor blade, no sword or nail in the sure place can measure. Tell me if you know or to what wilt thou compare how exquisite is to taste the eternal horrors, sins escaping one's body in droplets by every living pore.
strange as these words to me and you do appear, departing in hatste his humble and glorious presence, looking back but heading strait towards the returning gate, confused and troubled you were. T'was still you in sorrow and stupor of mind, left you him without asking even for his name.
Unawares in the hit and tumult of the moment, you must've touched the glare of his white yet strangely red tinted robes. At that very instant of all moments you felt free, the harrowing and soul wrecking anguish t'was in you no longer.
The old worries and toils had instantly flown away and turned to virtue. They guilt had swiftly departed your entrails. Leving only a stillness of bright hope and the sweet taste of fondness and still peace to await for you back home.
T'was after being quite a distance away, and high above the cumulus and stratus clouds, you beheld with amazement the crimson stain on your own robes.
Your white garment appeared also to be tinted with wine, which seemed to you then, twice as dark as the stain of a dead man's blood.
T'was at that awe and shocking of all moments that you wondered, still with very disturbing amazement, that perhaps you must’ve also been pricked, deadly wounded or hurt.
But there t'was no pain in you to make you remember, neither was there a soul ensuring comprehensible answer.
T'was until some three years later, an apostolic voice of a well known buffoon recanted, what then to me had long ago happened.
T'was a lure tone and yet truthful and prophetic notem that hit me the mind and heart like a propelled stone. T'was the melody of a well known but distant stranger's tale.
T'was was not the blood of your body foreigner he chanted to me, but the many blood a droplet of that distant stranger.
He transpired precious blood for you from every one of his pores. T'was in the wine press and grapes of the garden not Eden, in the night he expressed to me and you his eternal love.
As he’d finished drinking the embittered cup that the Father hath cast him, the night just before his framed arrest.
The caine ploting of ages foretold consummated in darkness, betrayed was he the shepherd, the messiah, the master.
Sold was he by a close friend with a friendly kiss. T'was then and there when the stranger was pleading your case.
T'was in the days of passover, when the paschal lamb of eternal atonement was offered, when by sacrifice perfect your guiltiness was cleared, giving you and me a clean slate.
T'was with unseen pain and unknown agony of a pure and guiltless soul, t'was how the distant stranger saved your and me soul.
T'was the divine and perfect life of sacrifice and obedience, T'was the cruel but required ransom that divine justice demanded of a guitless chosen one.
T'was how, I testify of the Savior, Jesus Christ, the LORD and redeemer.
He chose to suffer our guilt, our pains and our sickness, also our unkindness of all our woeful sinful past; and also too many of our present ill deeds and will.
Have thou also faith in him and delay no more to repent; come ye quickly, he is calling you and me. He has said follow thou me. In every which way and deed ye observe my word.
Come ye ends of the earth to the waters, enter ye by the appointed gate. Receive me today and my grace will I pour.
By and by he will yet speak to you shalom and comfort. Come back home, be wayward no more, for thou art also my son.
m.a.t.r.TL
No comments:
Post a Comment