He had no rights: No right to a soft bed, and a well-laid table; No right to a home of His own, a place where His own pleasure might be sought; No right to choose pleasant, congenial companions, those who could understand Him and sympathize with Him; No right to shrink away from filth and sin, to pull His garments closer around Him and turn aside to walk in cleaner paths; No right to be understood and appreciated; no, not by those upon whom He had poured out a double portion of His love; No right even never to be forsaken by His Father, the One who meant more than all to Him. His only right was silently to endure shame, spitting, blows; to take His place as a sinner at the dock; to bear my sins in anguish on the cross. He had no rights. And I? A right to the "comforts" of life? No, but a right to the love of God for my pillow. A right to physical safety? No, but a right to the security of being in His will. A right to love and sympathy from those around me? No, but a right to the friendship of the One who understands me better than I do myself. A right to be a leader among men? No, but the right to be led by the One to whom I have given my all, led as is a little child, with its hand in the hand of its father. A right to a home, and dear ones? No, not necessarily; but a right to dwell in the heart of God. A right to myself? No, but, oh, I have a right to Christ. All that He takes I will give; |
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