A BRUISED REED

Let’s take a trip in history back to Isaiah’s day. Have a look at what they did, and see if there’s a way To illustrate what happened when young boys played around, With instruments or anything to use to make a sound. They couldn’t be professional. Not at that tender age. But they would grab at anything; for music was the rage. There wasn’t much available. They couldn’t buy a flute. But anything that made that sound, they’d think was rather cute. So they would search the river bank especially the reeds. They wanted something suitable to meet their “Fluting” needs. The best ones were quite sturdy; they’d carve them in a trice, It only took a minute and their music sounded nice! They’d last them for the morning; til they were bent or bruised. It wasn’t so surprising the way that they were used. So when they sounded out of tune, they threw the reed away. Occasionally they’d break one, when through with it that day. This is a little picture of things which people do. But Jesus never does that with the likes of me or you. For we are broken people; we’re battered and we’re bruised. It’s what has happened in this life; By Satan we’re abused. But Jesus doesn’t discard a person He has seen. It isn’t in His nature to ask where we have been. He wants to play sweet music, and uses you and I, To play a mighty symphony; He never tells us why. He finds us bruised and battered; by Satan, thrown away. He knows our imperfections, but moulds us anyway. For He will play sweet music on anyone He finds. It doesn’t seem to matter; He breaks the chains that bind. And then with grotesque people, He plays notes so Divine, The angels stare in wonder; when He says “They are Mine”; They hardly can believe it. That something so obscene, Could play the sort of music that God alone Has seen. So when you’re looking at me and notice what I’ve done, Remember He has touched me and all my sin has gone. Perhaps I’m not a violin or even a bassoon. But since the day He saved me, don’t call me a buffoon. Why did He ever bother? Good “reeds” are plentiful. Perhaps a Stradivarius He didn’t choose to pull? Instead He plucked me out of the river bank of ”reeds”. And since that special morning He’s sanctified my deeds. Of course I don’t deserve it. My sound is a discord. But Jesus came and chose me to play music for the Lord. Jim Strickland – written Saturday, 17 September 2011