By His Stripes

But He was wounded for our transgressions,
He was bruised for our iniquities;
The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,
And by His stripes we are healed.

Isaiah 53: 5 NKJV

The time for me to leave the abbey came. I had loved reading my Bible and studying it. Spending 30 minutes on one verse is a luxury I seldom take. I had walked a lot and spent time talking with my dear friend who was there too.

It's always difficult for me to leave. So I walked the road from the Retreat House to the Chapel one last time. Already late in heading for home, I chastised myself for being so foolish as to walk. 'I should have driven and saved myself some time,' I thought to myself. But there's something about walking that road and thinking as you go.

I entered the vacant chapel and sat in a back pew to pray, thanking God for the time there, asking for safe travel, and readying myself for the patience I would need as I returned home to a busy life.

I studied the shadows on the chapel wall. Usually stripes connote a jail cell or prison garb. Instead, His stripes and His blood deliver us from such a sentence. The bright red window above the crucifix creates a pool of red on the Chapel floor when the morning sun hits it just right. And although I much prefer an empty cross in a church, the juxtaposition of symbols was powerful on this early evening, and I didn't mind it this time.

By His stripes we ARE healed.

"Crown Him With Many Crowns"

The words to this hymn were written by Matthew Bridges (1800-1894) and then more verses were added by Godfrey Thring (1823-1903). Both men were Anglicans from Britain (although Bridges converted to Catholicism in 1848). Thring was ordained in the Anglican church and wrote many volumes of hymns. His brother wrote of Thring's many hymns, "As long as the Eng­lish lang­uage lasts, sun­dry of your hymns will be read and sung…and ma­ny a soul of God’s crea­tures will thrill at your words. What more can a man want? [Y]ou live on the lips of the Church."

Crown Him With Many Crowns

Crown Him with many crowns, the Lamb upon His throne.
Hark! How the heavenly anthem drowns all music but its own.
Awake, my soul, and sing of Him who died for thee,
And hail Him as thy matchless King through all eternity.

Crown Him the virgin’s Son, the God incarnate born,
Whose arm those crimson trophies won which now His brow adorn;
Fruit of the mystic rose, as of that rose the stem;
The root whence mercy ever flows, the Babe of Bethlehem.

Crown Him the Son of God, before the worlds began,
And ye who tread where He hath trod, crown Him the Son of Man;
Who every grief hath known that wrings the human breast,
And takes and bears them for His own, that all in Him may rest.

Crown Him the Lord of life, who triumphed over the grave,
And rose victorious in the strife for those He came to save.
His glories now we sing, who died, and rose on high,
Who died eternal life to bring, and lives that death may die.

Crown Him the Lord of peace, whose power a scepter sways
From pole to pole, that wars may cease, and all be prayer and praise.
His reign shall know no end, and round His piercèd feet
Fair flowers of paradise extend their fragrance ever sweet.

Crown Him the Lord of love, behold His hands and side,
Those wounds, yet visible above, in beauty glorified.
No angel in the sky can fully bear that sight,
But downward bends his burning eye at mysteries so bright.

Crown Him the Lord of Heaven, enthroned in worlds above,
Crown Him the King to Whom is given the wondrous name of Love.
Crown Him with many crowns, as thrones before Him fall;
Crown Him, ye kings, with many crowns, for He is King of all.

Crown Him the Lord of lords, who over all doth reign,
Who once on earth, the incarnate Word, for ransomed sinners slain,
Now lives in realms of light, where saints with angels sing
Their songs before Him day and night, their God, Redeemer, King.

Crown Him the Lord of years, the Potentate of time,
Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime.
All hail, Redeemer, hail! For Thou has died for me;
Thy praise and glory shall not fail throughout eternity.

(Photo of Wells Cathedral, where Thring served, is from the Cornell University Library's Photostream.)