I think there's something fitting about closing the metaphorical laptop and saying "it is finished."

at first, it seems to dance near sacrilege. but then, maybe it toes closer to hallowed sacred.

He said "it is finished," and we are mere echoes resounding from the already to the not yet, reverber-shouting that His finished work covers, empowers, coats our every work. that our "finished" will never be enough, that His finished work will ever be enough, that incompleteness is the fullest form of complete.

it is finished:

that we live in an unfinished world

but that we fragrance the lavish final completeness we already harbor deep within us.

because our incompleteness is a restlessness which only gets a whole subsiding on the shores of eternity: perfected, enough, complete, so completely rest, o my soul. 


I definitely don't want this to be a monologue. What are your thoughts? Questions? Ideas?