How could I, Lord, have ever been so blind to think that being loved by you means making much of me and not yourself? How could i put my eye to some great telescope, designed to make me glad with visions of the galaxies, and notice in the glass a dim reflection of my face and say, "Now I am happy, I am loved"? How could i stand before the setting sun, between the mountain range and the vastness of the sea, and think that everlasting joy should come from making much of me?
No, Father, love is this: At great expense you made yourself my glory and my boast. The cost was infinite by which you made yourself the Treasure of my life. You sent our Son, the blazing center of your beauty and your love. You gave him up to mockery, betrayal, thorns, the whip, the rod, the fists, the nails, the shame, and death. For what? To swallow up your wrath, and satisfy your righteousness, and bury all my sins as far as east is from the west and in the deepest sea, so that i might come home and see the galaxy. This is your love, O God, not to make much of me, but do whatever must be done so that i waken to the joy of making much of you through all eternity.
John Piper. Don't Waste Your Life.
Koped from Em's blog :)
