In Psalms 42, David wept, and his tears became his sustenance—his very “meat.” That word, meat, has the same meaning as the shewbread that rested within the tabernacle, near the veil that separated man from the holy of holies. That bread was not for the common place; it was set apart, to be eaten only in the holy sanctuary. It was a provision, a renewal.
And in the same way, tears—those silent prayers that fall from weary souls—become a sacred offering. They are not wasted. They are not in vain. They are the fragrance of the holy place, the perfume of a heart laid bare before the Almighty.
There are moments when sorrow spills over, when grief comes in waves too strong to hold back. The tears fall, heavy and hot, carving rivers down weary faces, breaking open what we have tried so hard to keep sealed. But, oh, how holy they are.
For it is here, in this weeping, that we step beyond the veil. It is here, in the rawness of sorrow, that we find ourselves in the presence of the One who gathers every tear, who kneels beside us in the dust, who whispers, Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
So let them fall. For even in the breaking, even in the sorrow, even in the heaviness of grief—refreshing will come. Morning will break. And you will find yourself upheld by the same hands that formed the heavens.
What a way to enter the holy of holies.
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