Come Lift Up Your Sorrows

Come Lift Up Your Sorrows
If you are wounded
And if you're alone
If you are angry
If you're heart is cold as stone

If you have fallen
And if you are weak
Then come find the worth of God
That only the suffering seek.

Come lift up your sorrows
And offer your pain
Come make a sacrifice
of all your shame
There in your wilderness
He's waiting for you
To worship Him with your wounds
for He's wounded too.

He has not stuttered
and He has not lied.
When He says come unto me
you're not disqualified

When you're heavy laden
You may want to depart
But those who know sorrow
They're closest to his heart

Come lift up your sorrows
And offer your pain
Come make a sacrifice
of all your shame
There in your wilderness
He's waiting for you
To worship Him with your wounds
for He's wounded too.

In this most holy place
He's made a sacred space
For those who will enter in
and trust to cry out to him
And you'll find no curtain there
No reason left for fear
There's perfect freedom here
To weep every unwept tear.

Come lift up your sorrows
And offer your pain
Come make a sacrifice
of all your shame
There in your wilderness
He's waiting for you
To worship Him with your wounds
for He's wounded too.

Michael Card,
from "The Hidden Face of God" album

Fear Not, Much-Afraid

The shepherd answered Much-Afraid: "Fear not, Much-Afraid, only believe. I promise that you shall not be put to shame. Go with [these companions] Sorrow and Suffering, and if you cannot welcome them now, when you come to the difficult places where you cannot manage alone, put your hands in theirs confidently and they will take you exactly where I want you to go."

Much-Afraid stood quite still, looking up into his face, which now had such a happy exultant look, the look of one who above all things else delights in saving and delivering. In her heart the words of a hymn, written by another of the Shepherd's followers, began to run through her mind and she started to sing softly and sweetly:

Let Sorrow do its work, send grief or pain;
Sweet are thy messengers sweet their refrain.
If they but work in me, more love, O Christ, to thee,
More love to thee, more love to thee.

Each time she shrinkingly took hold of the hand of either Sorrow or Suffering a pang went through her, but once their hands were grasped she found they had amazing strength, and seemed to pull and even lift her upwards and over places which she would have considered utterly impossible to reach.

"Hinds' Feet On High Places," by Hannah Hurnard