The throat vibrates in cadenced tones, but the heart took flight days before and the mind disengaged itself as the first words slipped into automatic. The eyes scan the auditorium, alighting anywhere besides upon another pair of pupils. Other voices echo the same lines without reaching the solitary singer encased in his shell. Outwardly, a participant; inwardly, an absent soul.
On a given Sunday morning, worshipers sing, some in sweet rapture, others in rote performance.
But if it were my last song, how would I approach it?
“And after singing a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives” (Matthew 26:30, NASB).
Traditionally, the Jews ended the Passover feast with several praise psalms, probably Psalms 115-118. At his last feast, Jesus established the Christians’ weekly supper celebration, moments before his betrayal. Aware of what awaited him, he still sung praises to his Father with his followers.
Jesus was a man of joy and peace. Though the heavy sadness of the cross hung over the feast, his confidence in his heavenly Father and his contentment at fulfilling his mission spurred him to sing.
Knowing this was his last song, he must have savored each word, each line of each psalm.
Only here, at the end of the Passover and the establishment of the Lord’s Supper, are we told he sung. He must have sung hundreds of times before, in celebrations, in meetings, at home.
But this was a special song.
His special song became mine. What a privilege to sing it, every Sunday, every day, every opportunity!
When I remember that I sing his song, rote turns to rapture again.
For as in everything, I want to sing like Jesus.
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