Wonder and Grief in the House of Zion
On the first Thursday of Summer Break I awoke in the back of an RV, threw on an extra layer, and stumbled out into the brisk morning. As we had done the summer before, my family kicked off our Summer with a roadtrip to the Southwest. On this particular morning, we parked in a gloriously shaded campsite beside the Virgin River, running through the heart of Zion National Park.
Zion is my second-favorite National Park; there are very few places I’d rather be. While inhabited for generations by indigenous peoples, Isaac Behunin became the first permanent European-American settler in the area when he built a small cabin near present-day Zion Lodge in 1861. He named this area, saying, “A man can worship God among these great cathedrals as well as in any man-made church – this is Zion.” The name is sublimely perfect; to be surrounded by the majestic rocks bordering Zion Canyon is to be wrapped in wonder and nurtures in us a longing for the other … for Zion itself.
With everyone else still asleep, I took advantage of the early hours’ quiet and went for a walk, surrounded by the beautiful glow of dawn’s light against the red rocks of the canyon. As I strolled back to the campsite to hear stirrings inside the RV, I checked my phone for cellular reception. A singular bar allowed my phone to grab a handful of messages; one in particular froze me where I stood.
One of my closest college buddies had sent a message to our friend group in the early morning, saying that his teenage daughter had died in a car crash during the night. This dear friend is part of the group I wrote about several months ago. In God’s great goodness, we’ve stayed extremely close over the years, even recently joking that we hope to be placed in an assisted living facility together when the time comes. Upon rereading my friend’s text, I sat down on a rock, absolutely stunned. After gathering myself, I stuck my head in the RV, asked my wife to step outside, then showed her the text. My friend’s wife is also one of Katie’s best friends, and they live in my wife’s hometown. So, whenever we visit, we make a special point to connect with these closest of friends. So Katie and I felt the loss with equal weight. We wept together. Grief and Shock. Surrounded by God’s created beauty.
We decided not to tell our kids until we got back home to St. Louis but walked to the next campsite and told our friends traveling with us, feeling it was important for them to know. I was thankful to have a believing friend alongside me; even though he wasn’t part of my college friend group, it was immensely comforting to have someone to share the burden with. That’s always the case; we were built for community, and it’s never more obvious than at the height of emotion – whether in profound joy or sadness.
Our two families had a full day of hiking planned. It was still glorious to be in the park; but, our hearts were deeply broken. A very weird dynamic, indeed. As we soon learned details for the visitation and funeral the following week, we knew there was little we could do apart from pray, being on the other side of the country. And, we still had several days to wrap up our trip. So, we continued with heavy hearts … still surrounded by so much beauty.
We had won a permit lottery earlier in the day to hike the Angel’s Landing trail … maybe my favorite trail in the entire country, and one of the most famous and extreme hikes at Zion. The approach of the hike is relentlessly steep – countless switchbacks up the walls of the canyon, leading to a “knife-edge” trail that culminates in one of the most stunning views in the U.S. The last part of the trail is relatively brief, but it’s dangerous enough that the Park Service installed chains for hikers to grasp while making their way out to the scenic overlook of Angel’s Landing. I’ve never been one to struggle with heights. In fact, I’d probably be well-suited to have a greater fear of heights. But, given my emotional state, I froze at the final leg of the hike … paralyzed by the height. Not only was I scared to allow my kids out on the ledge, I was personally terrified. I sat with my knees against my chest and cried. So close to something I wanted to experience with my family and friends. Knowing my normal disposition toward thrilling heights, my wife could tell something was wrong; both she and my buddy were unspeakably gracious to me. I was in Zion, and rather than joyful, I was scared and grieved.
We hiked down, enjoying the views while I tried to get past my paralysis. Later that day, my friend said he would never think of the song “We Will Feast in the House of Zion” again with the same perspective after being in Zion National Park. I fully agree; it’s just. So. Beautiful. Zion gets into you. Woah! There’s a worldview statement right there. Shouldn’t this always be true of the people of God – that we are to be shaped forever by a view of and hope in Zion! In the midst of walking around, utterly broken by the reminder that it’s not supposed to be this way, I was given the gift of a beautiful canyon called Zion to nurture my longings for a the Greater Zion where all sad things will come untrue.
Over the remainder of the trip, I often found myself humming the tune to the song written by Sandra McCracken and Josh Moore, and it has continued since returning to the Midwest. The combination of the song and reflecting on our time in Zion National Park prompted me to explore the roots and meaning of Zion.
Zion is mentioned 152 times in the Bible, with the bulk in the Old Testament. Only six times in the historical books of I Samuel - II Chronicles, and two of those are repeats. Forty-one times in the Psalms. Fifty times in Isaiah, seventeen times in Jeremiah, and fifteen times in Lamentations. Thirty-one times in the Minor Prophets. It’s only mentioned seven times in the New Testament, five of which are quotations from the Old Testament. The fact that the name is used far more in the Bible’s poetic and prophetic books than in the historical ones tells me that the images and deeper meanings of the word are far more significant than the place itself.
Even though it’s considered to be the highest point in Jerusalem (a Jebusite fortress captured by David), Zion was often extended to also represent the entire city, the hill upon which the Temple stood, the Temple itself, the entire geographic land of Israel, the descendants of Jacob, of God’s eternal dwelling place, and of God’s people with Him in that dwelling … the heavenly city. Zion is also used in significantly different ways. At times it’s physical place; elsewhere, it’s a people. Sometimes that place was present among the OT writers; at other times, they were referencing a future, eternal place. Sometimes, it references a fortress of war where God is a devouring fire and mighty tempest. Yet, it’s also spoken of in the context of refuge, restoration, and return. Sometimes, it’s referenced in sadness and mourning. At other times, it’s a place of singing, rest, joy, and eternal hope. In a way, this gave me a fuller context for making sense of my own conflicting emotions while in Zion: Joy and Wonder on one hand; Grief and Sorrow on the other.
We eventually sat around the table for Sunday lunch to tell our kids about the tragic accident and that we would be traveling to the funeral. There were quite a few tears from parents and children alike. Though our friends’ kids are older than ours, our children have gotten to know the entire family pretty well. A few days later, we made the drive back to Katie’s hometown, still not knowing what to say or even think. We drove into town to see thousands of trees with pink bows tied around them; an entire community in mourning. Tears rushed in.
Because both Katie’s and my college friend groups are so close, nearly everyone was able to make it in town. It has always been profoundly good to be around these beloved friends; it was life-giving to see them. Lots of tears, laughs, and reminders. Being present for friends in times of hurt is a humbling honor. When we made the drive up for the funeral weekend, we didn’t have much of a plan; we merely needed to be there. Though not literal family, a brother and sister of ours had lost a child, and the rest of the college family came together - to simply be. My brothers. Katie’s sisters. To this day, I will forever be thankful for what my college gave me: far more than the knowledge I acquired, this is the greatest impact our college years had on us – introducing people into our lives who would shape us forever.
Finally seeing our friends who had lost their sweet girl was both strangely good and indescribably hard. What words could ever be used to describe it? Thankful to be there. Angry to be there. Amazed by the strength of a family who has suffered cosmic loss. Grief that seeps to the bone. Overwhelmed by a community shattered – with nothing to hold to apart from the certainty that God is no less good today than He was when hung in our place 2,000 years ago. Confidence that there’s a better country. We know that. What else can we say with broken hearts to others whose hearts are even more deeply shattered?
Our kids had never been to a funeral; Katie and I felt it would be formative for them to attend one where we had an idea of what would be said because we know the sorts of people our friends are and the sorts of things they would want to be said about their daughter and her Savior. Though our kids may not fully grasp the weight of a funeral and likely wouldn’t understand everything said, we knew it would be good for them to hear and see. We knew they would hear the gospel proclaimed. We knew they would hear and see images of hope and statements of sadness and loss. We knew they would see their parents grieve. We knew they would see their parents’ friends broken. I didn’t know that I would find myself singing “We Will Feast in the House of Zion” along with them with tears in my eyes. That song!
Though my family’s Presbyterian church leans quite traditional, our Sunday evening service is more relaxed, including the style of music. So, that’s when we often sing “We Will Feast in the House of Zion,” and it has nearly always brought a tear to my eyes, especially the lines of the second verse, “And from the garden to the grave / Bind us together, bring shalom.” Shalom gets me every time, because it’s what I most long for … not merely the “peace” we often speak in shallow translation of the Hebrew word, but for its deeper meaning of full, flourishing, wholeness. It’s what we were meant for; it’s at the heart of God’s blessing upon His people (Num. 6:26); it’s what God promises to radiate throughout the age to come.
I guess it can be easily explained why I’d be so moved to sing a song that had already filled my heart and mind merely a week earlier. But, why were we singing about Zion at a funeral with well over 1,000 others? Why were we singing about feasting? When I heard about the accident, I lost my appetite. I didn’t want any food … let alone a feast.
In his fabulous book The Pattern of God’s Truth, Frank Gaebelein says, “Christianity is a world and life view and not simply a series of unrelated doctrines. Christianity includes all of life. Every realm of knowledge, every aspect of life and every fact of the universe find their place and their answer within Christianity. It is a system of truth enveloping the entire world in its grasp.” I love this quote, because it so fully explains why we experience the things we do at funerals. Gaebelein says that Christianity isn’t merely a handful of ideas Christians happen to believe and rituals we put into practice. Rather, it helps us make sense of everything around us … “enveloping the whole world in its grasp.” Nearly every funeral I’ve attended has recurring themes: grief, sadness, brokenness … and potentially anger. But we’ll also hear statements of hope and maybe even of celebration. How do we make sense of that? Well, as Gabelein tells us, everything finds “their place and their answer within Christianity.” Dare I say … within Zion.
Only Christianity can adequately explain why we attend funerals feeling as though it’s not supposed to be this way. Certainly, we know a beautiful teenage girl should not lose her life in a car wreck. It’s not supposed to be that way. But, we even feel that with the loss of an elderly loved one. Even though everyone dies, we still feel as though it’s not supposed to be this way. When attending the funeral of my three year-old niece ten years ago, I was angry. Certainly sad, but so much more than that … enraged. It is not. Supposed. To be. This way. And, we all know it. Other systems may speak of death as a passing of energy or an inconvenient materialistic process. In response to those systems, it would be inconsistent to feel like something is wrong, because death is the natural outworking of all things. The Circle of Life.
Christians alone can stare death in the face with anger and sadness without violating the system, because it was never supposed to be this way (the Creation story tells us this much). More than this, though, we know that God hates death – so much so, that He took it on Himself, was victorious over it, and will ultimately destroy it entirely (I Cor. 15:26). Why would God plan to destroy death unless it’s inherently bad? We even see Jesus’s sadness when lamenting with Mary and Martha and then full of indignation at death when approaching Lazarus’s tomb in John 11. We have every right to be justifiably grieved - to even be mad.
But, Christianity also explains the hope people so often need to hear expressed at funerals. I don’t think I’ve ever attended a funeral where speakers didn’t insinuate that the deceased person is with God, in heaven, or in some form of paradise … regardless of the life that person lived. R.C. Sproul once insisted that one of our cultural values is “justification by death.” Regardless of who a person is, we automatically transport him or her into the presence of God. We need that hope at the moment of death; it’s part of the way we cope. Even at secular funerals, people still feel compelled to offer words of hope: “I know he’s looking down on me.” “She’s in a better place now.” “She’s no longer hurting.” Yet Christianity is the only way we can ever have real assurance, because every other system hopes a person did “enough” to merit salvation, or they neither properly recognize God’s holiness nor the immense burden of our sin. Christianity alone confesses God as absolute in His goodness, the utter weight of our problem, and offers real hope because our “fix” isn’t based upon what we do, but the pursuing love of the absolute One who took the full weight of that problem on Himself 2,000 years ago. That Person who walked the streets of Palestine, lived a perfect life, took our sin on Himself, died in our place, and was victorious over death … that Person, the Messiah, is also a focal point of many of the Old Testament images of Zion. The very same Zion where we see both loss and comfort:
“Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion!
Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem!
Behold, your king is coming to you;
righteous and having salvation is he,
humble and mounted on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” (Zechariah 9:9)
“… Behold, I am the one who has laid as a foundation in Zion,
a stone, a tested stone,
a precious cornerstone, of a sure foundation.” (Isaiah 28:16)
“And a Redeemer will come to Zion,
to those in Jacob who turn from transgression,” declares the Lord. (Isaiah 59:20)
“Sing aloud, O daughter of Zion;
shout, O Israel!
Rejoice and exult with all your heart,
O daughter of Jerusalem!
The Lord has taken away the judgments against you;
he has cleared away your enemies.
The King of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst;
you shall never again fear evil.
On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem:
“Fear not, O Zion;
let not your hands grow weak.
The Lord your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing. “ (Zephaniah 3: 14-17)
When we dig into the Messianic promises associated with Zion, we’re given powerful images of the coming King – the Cornerstone, the Redeemer coming into the midst of His people. To save. To take away sin. To humbly ride on the foal of a donkey. This prophesied truth that became tangible reality in the person of Jesus gives us the confidence to sing,
“We will not be burned by the fire
He is the Lord, our God
We are not consumed by the flood
Upheld, protected, gathered up.”
We can sing this with confidence because Christ has come. Yet, this reality doesn’t make the pain magically disappear. We sit in places of grief, punched in the face with the casualties of the Fall. It’s the world we live in; we can’t escape it. Far too often, Christians endure lives of confused mediocrity because we know we’re supposed to have hope, joy, and confidence. Yet, we’re faced with the painful realities of our own sin and constantly surrounded by the ubiquitous effects of the Fall. We should lament those and be angry about them. But, what about joy and hope? Do we have to stop being sad? What are we to do? In that confusion, we tend to shoot for the middle - relegated to lives of moderation.
This may be one of the places where I’m most thankful for the work of G.K. Chesterton, often referred to as the “Prince of Paradox.” Paradoxes confound us. We feel the need to resolve them, because we can’t handle “competing” ideas both being true. Not being able to resolve them, we land somewhere in the middle, resulting in moderation as one of our highest virtues. Many of us even long for politicians who are “moderate,” because we’ve come to see moderation as “level-headed” or wise, even. But for Chesterton, the paradoxes of life (and especially those of the life of faith) aren’t intended to be resolved, avoided, or merely tolerated because they won’t go away. In fact, we need to embrace paradox.
The Bible tells us that Jesus was both God and Man. It’s also quite clear that God is fully in control over all things … all of them. Yet, somehow we’re free. Neither of these work in our minds, so we pay lip-service to them doctrinally while functionally living as though Jesus was “kinda God” and “kinda man” or reducing humanity’s freedom to accentuate God’s sovereignty or limiting His control in order to respect humanity’s “free will.” At other times, we get frustrated all together and develop unstated (but lived-out) positions where we take a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Moderation of Belief. Moderation of Life.
But Chesterton says that one of the greatest dangers of the modern mind is that we’ve come to care more for consistency than for truth. Chesterton’s not opposed to consistency. But he is opposed to what we tend to do when “competing” truths don’t fit into our tidy boxes. We gravitate toward life-systems that drift toward moderation (or heresy). Jesus often spoke in paradoxes, “If you want to be first, you have to be last.” “If you want to find your life, you have to lose it.” If Chesterton is the prince of paradoxes, Jesus is King. People who are more interested in truth than consistency cling to those truths without trying to fit them into tidy systems. They hold them at odds without needing to resolve them or push them toward a central mean. Fiercely and freely.
Even though it’s uncomfortable to embrace, we weren’t made for tidiness. We need mystery; we even need contradiction, because these force us to remember that God is God and we are not. As Chesterton says in Orthodoxy, “As long as you have mystery you have health” and “…the more I considered Christianity, the more I found that while it had established a rule and order, the chief aim of of that order was to give room for good and contradicting things to run wild.” Imagine joy and hope running wild but not stifled by sadness and anger running wild simultaneously!
The writer of Ecclesiastes says that it’s better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of laughter. (Ecc. 7:2) Among the other songs we sang at the funeral, voicing my longing to Feast in Zion made the insight of Ecclesiastes more true than ever before, and I’m glad my young children were there to see and hear it. The “House of Mourning” forces us to deal with primary things – with what’s true above all else. It forces us to answer the hard, immediate question, “do we really believe these things to be true?” It wrestles us away from the lies our world tells us (which we also like to tell ourselves). We want tidiness; we want to make things primarily about ourselves; we want to live forever. But as C.S. Lewis says in A Grief Observed, “Reality is iconoclastic.” Cold reality smashes our idols; that’s what “iconoclasm” means: idol smashing. We all have idols, and we like them. They’re shiny. But, they need to be smashed. Forceful language because we don’t willingly give them up. Houses of mourning force these truths to “run wild.” They force us to sit in Zion and be crumpled against its walls.
In this shattering, though, we find the only hope there could ever possibly be. In Mere Christianity, Lewis says the gospel doesn’t start with comfort, it starts with dismay, and in The Problem of Pain that “Pain is God’s megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” The gospel becomes good news when we begin to realize the depth of the problem we’re in. Sometimes we won’t even begin to see that situation until pain drags us to that place. In those places, God’s megaphone yells at us, “You’re not o.k.” “Something’s wrong.” “Don’t you see you can’t control even your own little world?” While certainly not comforting, this dismay forces us to loosen our grip on our idols and run to the only place we can find sure shelter. When many of His followers started to leave Him over the confounding teaching of John 6, Jesus turns to the Twelve and asks whether they will leave Him too. To this, Peter responds, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life…” (6:68)
This has long been one of my favorite passages because of Peter’s vulnerability. Prior to denying Jesus, most of Peter’s statements were abrupt, bombastic, zealous, and myopic. We’d naturally expect Peter to answer with confidence, “Never, Jesus! We would never do such a thing.” In this case, however, Peter’s response seems almost frail. It’s as though he says, “I’ve kinda weighed this one, Jesus. I’m not fully sure what I think. But at least I know that there’s no where else I can go.”
Upon hearing of this tragedy and coming from a place of great loss in her own story, one of Katie’s good friends asked, “How is God glorified in this?” Like Peter, I don’t know how to respond. I know it’s impossible for anything to happen outside of God’s providence. I know that. And, I know that God loves His people and truly does care for us. Uff … I feel like I say that one with clinched teeth, but I know it’s true. He can’t not be good. I know that. At the same time, I really don’t understand why this had to happen; it really doesn’t make sense. At all. But where else am I to go? A life of mystery and paradox allows me to sit in both. I don’t have to know how God is glorified in situations like this, and it often seems like the pressure we feel to answer that questions causes us to say things that may not necessarily be true. Maybe it’s better to sit exactly where these kinds of tragedies leave us: both truths running wild. It’s really, really not supposed to be this way. And God really is good and cares deeply for His people.
Still, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer says in Life Together, God will interrupt us. He’s God and we are not, and He will work according to His plan, not ours. That will interrupt us. Oh, it would make so much more sense if His plan neatly fit into ours, but we’re fooling ourselves to think that it ever would. I hate being interrupted; it’s one of my pet peeves. Not merely in conversation, but in life. In general, I want the rest of the world to gravitate around my plans - whether they’re stated or not. Jokingly, I often tell people that my love language is “to be left alone.” But what if I need to be interrupted? (eh hem … I do). What if I need my idols smashed? What if I need the mysteries and paradoxes of life to force me out of my own little kingdom so I’m enamored by Christ and His Kingdom?
In his biography of Jesus, the Apostle Luke records Jesus’s first public statement in His hometown synagogue. As Luke tells us, Jesus opens up one of the scrolls of Isaiah and begins to read:
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.” (Luke 4:18-19 quoting Isaiah 61:1-2)
After returning to His seat with the eyes of everyone still on Him, Jesus then tells them, “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (4:21) In his first public statement of who He is and what He came to do, Jesus chose to read from a section of Isaiah which proclaims that His coming is the beginning and fulfillment of restoration - to return all things back to the way they’re supposed to be. Good news to the poor. Liberty to the captives. Sight to the blind. To proclaim the year of the Lord’s Favor. That’s what He came to do … even on the the darkest of days. To bring shalom.
“And from the garden to the grave / Bind us together, bring shalom.”
When we open to the entire section from which Jesus read, once again we’re brought to Zion: “… to grant to those who mourn in Zion— to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.” (Isaiah 61:3) This is the very next verse! When Jesus chose to reveal the primary reason He came, He read from a passage about Zion. A passage not only describing what He planned to do, but also what it would accomplish. His restorative work in the midst of blindness, mourning, poverty, captivity, oppression, ashes, and fainting spirits turns His people (us … the very same captives, poor, and blind) into oaks of righteousness. And that brings Him glory. How? I don’t fully know, but a passage about Zion, quoted by Jesus provides the beginnings of an answer to my wife’s friend. We know he came to fix it all; He tells us as much. We also know He doesn’t like it the way it is; He hates it so much that He took it on Himself and promises to defeat it. But maybe He leaves some of the hurt and grief at present to rescue us from our idols so we recognize that we are aliens and strangers, leading us to long for the Feast and restoration of all things.
But this is nothing new. The writer of Hebrews tells us that all the “heroes of the faith” received the promised, earthly Zion but were looking forward to something far greater. They knew this wasn’t their true home. Abraham “was looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God.” (11:10) and “These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.” (11:13-15) Somehow, they understood that it was always about the better country. In the midst of their exile … all of that seeking for a homeland … God has been working to create in us longings for the truer Zion.
Then, the writer of Hebrews brings it full-circle in chapter 12, “For you have not come to what may be touched, a blazing fire and darkness and gloom and a tempest … But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering.” (12:18 & 22) He’s called us to Zion, and to a feast. That’s what it has always been about, and He’s surrounded us with a beautiful and majestic world to help us toward that end. Great wonders and imaginative mystery which nurture a longing for the other, a better country. Yet, there’s still such profound loss and sadness which ought prompt in us the same longings – the sorts of which only Jesus can satisfy. Beauty and Glory on one hand. Brokenness and Frailty on the other. Both aim us to Zion.
In his book, Handing Down the Faith, Christian Smith says that far-and-away the single most formative effect on the spiritual life of our kids isn’t the number of hours they spend in Christian schools or how regularly they attend youth groups or Sunday School; it’s the religious lives of their parents. A big part of the religious life our kids need to see is the sort of faith that embraces mystery and paradox. They need to see us cling to God’s promises in desperation, without forcing them into tidy boxes. They need to see us mourn and call evil what it is. They need to see us cling to God’s promises. They need to see His truths run wild in our lives. They don’t need safety as the highest virtue; they don’t need moderation; they don’t need a neat and sterile faith. For, when the iconoclasm of life interrupts their predictable worlds, they’re left with mere words.
But Jesus didn’t offer mere words; He came to offer Himself. He even criticized those people who didn’t see Him at the heart of the Scriptures … “You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me.” (Jn. 5:39) His words are beautiful, and they show us who He is. But, we need Him … as a Person, and our kids need to see that deep need in us. That need becomes much more apparent when we loosen our grips, embrace the mysteries and interruptions of life under the preeminence of the living and active Jesus. Nurture their wonder and imaginations. Take them to places where they can see incomprehensible beauty. Let them be overwhelmed; let them have real emotions. Let them mourn. Help them find comfort. Let them sit in Zion … certainly metaphorically, but why not take them to the park!
I can’t wait until I get a chance to return to Zion and look out over Angel’s Landing, but I long even more for the greater Zion, the truer Zion, the better country and undying lands. My true home, where along with God’s people I’ll sing the chorus which has become my longing hope … “We will feast in the house of Zion. We will sing with our hearts restored. He has done great things, we will say together. We will feast and weep no more.” Zion has gotten to me; may it also get to you.
“And the ransomed of the Lord shall return
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain gladness and joy,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” (Isaiah 51:11)
“Fear not, daughter of Zion; behold, your king is coming.” (John 12:15)
