“Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail, hippity, hoppity, Easter’s on its way.”
I remember singing that as child, eagerly awaiting the smell of vinegar for egg-dying, the taste of entirely too many Peeps and the nauseating smell of egg-salad sandwiches.
As always, time has flown and I find myself in the last week of Lent, longing for God to slow me down and shock me afresh with the Divine Conspiracy, as Dallas Willard so magically calls it.
G.K. Chesterton says that familiarity breeds contempt, that hearing the same things year after after tends to make the extraordinary appear mundane.
Recognizing this in my own heart, every year I ask the Lord to give me a fresh view of Easter. Here it is.
Knit in the beginning in a borrowed womb,
Left in the end in a borrowed tomb.
Laid in His early days in a borrowed manger,
Hung in his later days for a borrowed danger.
The only priceless One, broken, borrowed, used;
Many wayward sons with borrowed grace infused.
Bound by love on Friday, He died a borrowed death,
Fraught with life on Sunday, We breath His borrowed breath.
By His Borrowing We Were Bought.