THE FATHER BOWS AT CALVARY
There are moments in Scripture where God steps back the veil just enough for us to see Him. Not His power. Not His throne. Not His fire. But His heart. Moments when the God who is infinite becomes so close, so tender, so grieved, so invested in His children, that you can feel the heartbeat of Heaven in the pages of the text.
Today, if you will walk with me gently, slowly, reverently, I want to lead you toward one of those places. Not the garden tomb. Not the empty cross. Not the stone rolled away.
But toward the Father’s heart at Calvary.
Most of the time when we preach the Cross, we preach from the ground level. We stand beside the thieves, or beside the centurion, or beside the women who wept from a distance. We feel the nails, the scourging, the thirst, the abandonment. We watch the Son suffer, and rightly so. No preacher ever exhausts the love of Jesus at the Cross.
But there is another story—one equally biblical, equally true, equally sacred—that we rarely tell. It is the story not of the Son who suffered, but of the Father who loved. The Father who watched. The Father who held all power in His hands, and bowed beneath a grief that angels dared not imagine.
And I confess something to you this morning:
I believe the Father suffered in a way we have not yet had words for.
Jesus suffered for us.
The Father suffered with Him.
The Son bore our sins.
The Father bore the weight of letting Him.
The Son hung on the Cross.
The Father stayed His own hand.
And if we will look carefully—not with the loudness of debate but with the quietness of worship—we will begin to see something Scripture has whispered all along:
Calvary broke the heart of the Father long before it redeemed the heart of the world.
When Jesus cried “My God, My God—why have You forsaken Me?” it was not a line of performance. It was the sound of Heaven’s bond tearing, the cry of a relationship that had never been broken, a cry that pierced the universe in two.
And somewhere between the echo of that cry and the final, “It is finished,” the Father bowed.
He bowed beneath the weight of love.
He bowed beneath the cost of salvation.
He bowed beneath the choice to save us—not by overwhelming power, but by overwhelming sacrifice.
So let’s go back, not to the Cross yet, but to the place where the story begins—not in Bethlehem, not in Nazareth, but before time itself.
---
>> IN THE BEGINNING — THE COST DECIDED
Before there were galaxies spinning in their courses, before there were angels singing in the courts of glory, before there was Eden or Adam or the tree in the garden, there was a decision.
Scripture calls Jesus “the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.” Which means that before the world was made, the Cross was already casting a shadow across Heaven.
Creation was an act of love, but that love included the weight of foreknowledge. God knew what freedom would cost. He knew what sin would do. He knew the day would come when the Son He adored would walk into death for the children He adored no less.
Yet God created anyway.
I’ve stood at maternity wards and watched parents hold their newborns. I’ve seen mothers and fathers lift their faces with joy, not because they know what the future holds, but because they know love makes the future worth facing. God created the world with that kind of love, only magnified by infinity.
He knew the Cross was coming.
He knew the rejection was coming.
He knew the grief, the betrayal, the violence, the darkness, the loneliness.
And He said, “Let there be light.”
What kind of love is that?
What kind of Father opens His heart knowing it will be broken?
What kind of God speaks life into a world that will one day take the life of His own Son?
The same Father who would later bow at Calvary.
Where angels sing, and galaxies are born, and eternity is measured in joy, there was a conversation—holy, solemn, eternal. Not a vote. Not a negotiation. But a unanimous decision of the Triune God:
The Son will go.
The Spirit will strengthen.
The Father will give.
And all Heaven bowed in awe.
But the Cross… the Cross was far away then. We must come nearer now.
---
>> THE FATHER IN GETHSEMANE
When Jesus entered Gethsemane, He did not go alone. Scripture tells us He took Peter, James, and John. But Heaven knows the truth: the Father went with Him.
Not to remove the cup, but to share the weight.
The moment Jesus reached the place where His knees gave way, the Father felt that collapse in His own being. The moment Jesus whispered, “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death,” the Father’s heart trembled with a grief older than the world.
And when Jesus fell on His face and prayed,
“Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me,”
there was a silence in Heaven so heavy that angels held their breath.
Every fiber of the Father’s being wanted to say, “Yes.”
Every pulse of His love wanted to lift that burden.
Every instinct of His heart wanted to rescue His Son.
But if He rescued Jesus, He would lose us.
Think of that.
God loved us enough to refuse the cry of His own Son.
He watched Jesus tremble, watched Him sweat blood, watched Him stagger under the weight of sin—not because He lacked the power to intervene, but because He loved humanity enough to stay His hand.
This is where the Father bowed first.
Not at the Cross, but in the garden.
He bowed to the cost of saving us.
He bowed to the grief of letting Jesus go forward.
He bowed to the unbearable tension of love—
love that stretched wide enough to include both His Son and us.
There were angels waiting—thousands of them—each one trembling with a warrior’s readiness, hands on the hilts of invisible swords, wings quivering in outrage. They were waiting for the word that never came.
And somewhere in the shadows, the Father whispered:
“My Son… I will not leave You. I will not help You. I will not forsake You. But I cannot save You from this—for through Your suffering, I will save the world.”
Gethsemane was the Father’s silent prayer:
“Not My will, but Yours be done… even when it breaks My heart.”
And Jesus drank the cup.
We must move on.
Because the story darkens.
And Heaven bends lower still.
---
>> THE FATHER DURING THE TRIAL
When they came for Jesus like He was a criminal, the Father followed.
He followed when they bound Him.
He followed when they struck Him.
He followed when they lied about Him.
He followed when they dragged Him from one court to another like a trophy of their hatred.
And here is where Scripture forces us to expand our vision:
Jesus stood silent before His accusers.
But the Father was not silent inside.
The Father’s heart thundered.
Every blow that struck the Son struck the Father’s love.
Every insult that fell on Jesus fell on the Father’s dignity.
Every lash that tore the flesh of Christ tore at the Father’s resolve.
He watched His Son—His beloved Son—be mocked, spit upon, humiliated.
He watched men He had created crown His Son with thorns grown from the ground He had created.
He watched soldiers blindfold Jesus and then strike Him.
“Prophesy! Tell us who hit You!”
He knew who hit Him.
He formed the hand that struck Him.
He gave breath to the lungs that mocked Him.
And still… He held back.
This is the tenderness of the Father.
This is the grief of the Father.
This is where the sermon must slow down.
Because the Father is not angry.
He is not distant.
He is not looking on with the coldness of a judge.
He is looking on with the anguish of a parent.
And in that moment, Heaven bowed lower.
The trial was cruel enough.
But it was not the worst.
The Father watched as His own creation—men formed from dust He breathed life into—took the back of their hands and struck His Son across the face. He watched as their voices rose in laughter, and their hearts sank deeper into darkness. But even then, Heaven was not surprised.
What broke Heaven’s heart was not the evil of men.
It was the innocence of the Lamb.
It’s one thing to watch a sinner suffer.
It’s another to watch the One who knew no sin suffer for all.
And the Father saw it all.
---
>> THE SCOURGING — WHEN LOVE TREMBLED
The soldiers drew Jesus into the courtyard for the scourging. No writer, not even the Gospel writers, seems willing to describe it in detail. Maybe they couldn't bring themselves to speak it. Maybe words failed them. Maybe Heaven itself refuses to let language be used too carelessly when it comes to the suffering of the Son of God.
But if you listen carefully, Scripture whispers enough.
There was the post.
There were the cords.
There was the whip—nine lashes, each tipped with hooks and shards, each one designed not to bruise but to tear.
And there was Jesus—bound, bleeding, already weakened, already bearing the weight of every sin that had ever been committed.
And behind Him, above Him, around Him… was the Father.
He was not absent.
He was not distant.
He was not looking away from duty.
He was looking toward love.
When the first lash tore through the air and found the back of the Son, Heaven flinched. Angels covered their faces. The Holy Spirit grieved with a depth beyond human measure. And the Father—God Almighty—felt something in His heart that had never existed before.
Pain.
Not physical pain.
Not the pain of a body.
But the pain of a Father.
Every strike hurt Jesus.
But every strike also tore at the Father’s soul.
This was the moment—more than any other—when the Father’s love was tested. Not tested as if it might fail, but tested in the way gold is tested in fire. When everything inside Him desired to say, “Enough.” When every divine impulse longed to stop the cruelty, silence the soldiers, halt the madness. When all power in the universe rested in His hand but remained unused.
He had to stand there, sovereign and still, while His Son endured the punishment meant for us. And in that moment, God bowed again—bowed beneath the grief of watching the innocent suffer, bowed beneath the love that would not let Him intervene, bowed beneath the weight of redemption.
If you have ever loved someone who was hurting, and you could not stop the hurt…
if you have ever watched a child walk through suffering you would gladly take in their place…
you have touched the faintest edge of what the Father felt that day.
But even that is only a shadow.
---
>> THE ROAD TO CALVARY
When Jesus was led out of the courtyard, His back torn open, His brow pierced by thorns, His eyes burning from blood and sweat, the Father followed.
He followed Him through the streets, through the mockery, through the jeers. He followed Him as He staggered beneath the Cross. He followed Him as the crowd pressed in, some weeping, most indifferent, some delighted in the spectacle.
The Cross was not just a Roman instrument of death.
It was the weight of the world, the judgment of sin, the curse of rebellion.
And Jesus carried it because the Father would not let us carry it ourselves.
There are no thrones in this part of the story.
No burning seraphim crying “Holy, holy, holy.”
No angels singing.
No glory shining.
Just a Father walking behind His suffering Son.
Just a Father willing Himself not to intervene.
This is where love becomes costly.
This is where sacrifice becomes personal.
This is where the Father bows a third time.
There are theologians who argue about what God feels.
Does He suffer?
Does He grieve?
Does He feel pain?
I cannot pretend to answer every philosophical angle, but I know this:
If God is love, then love suffers when love is wounded.
And love was wounded at Calvary long before the nails were driven.
---
>> CALVARY — WHEN THE FATHER LET GO
When they reached the hill, when they stretched Jesus out on the beams of the Cross, when the hammer was lifted for the first time, all Heaven leaned forward.
This was the boundary between the ages.
This was the moment when salvation hung on a nail.
This was where the Father—who had held the universe together—let go.
Not of His Son.
But of His right to intervene.
When the hammer fell and the first nail drove through the wrist of the Son of God, something happened in Heaven that the Bible describes only in symbols:
The sun grew dark.
The earth trembled.
Graves shook.
The air thickened.
Creation itself seemed to recoil.
Why?
Because the One who spoke the world into existence was now being pierced by the hands of His own creation.
And the Father watched.
He watched as the soldiers lifted the Cross and let it fall into its socket, jarring every nerve in Jesus’ body.
He watched as the Son gasped for breath.
He watched as the mockers laughed.
He watched as the religious leaders nodded in satisfaction.
And He held His peace.
He held it because if He broke His silence, He would break salvation.
He held it because for Jesus to save us, He had to stand in our place—and the Father had to stand aside.
This is the place in Scripture where the tenderness of God becomes almost unbearable. Because up until this moment, Jesus has spoken to the Father constantly. He has prayed to Him, trusted Him, leaned on Him, drawn strength from Him.
But on the Cross, something terrible—holy, necessary, and world-changing—happened.
The Father withdrew.
Not in anger.
Not in rejection.
Not in disgust.
But because Jesus stood where sinners stand.
And sin separates.
Not because God stops loving, but because holiness and sin cannot coexist without judgment.
And Jesus became sin—not a sinner, but sin itself.
This is when the Father bowed deepest.
He bowed beneath the separation.
He bowed beneath the silence He was forced to keep.
He bowed beneath the cry that tore through all creation.
---
>> THE CRY THAT SHOOK HEAVEN
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”
“My God, My God… why have You forsaken Me?”
That cry was not the cry of a sinner rejected.
It was the cry of a Son who could no longer feel the face of His Father.
And the Father heard it.
He heard it with a grief beyond language.
He heard it with a love beyond comprehension.
He heard it with a pain that eternity had never known.
For the first time in the history of Heaven, the Trinity felt distance.
For the first time in eternity, fellowship fractured.
For the first time in forever, the Father did not answer the Son.
And the universe trembled.
This—more than the nails, more than the thorns, more than the scourging—was the moment that cost Heaven the most. This was the moment when the Father bowed not just in grief, but in sacrifice. He bowed because in the Son’s isolation, we were accepted. In the Son’s darkness, we gained light. In the Son’s abandonment, we found home.
And then, as the world darkened at midday, as silence spread across the earth, as Jesus’ life flickered like a candle in a storm, the Father prepared for the words that would end the suffering but fulfill the mission.
Jesus gathered His breath.
He lifted His voice one final time.
And with a strength no dying man should possess, He cried:
“It. Is. Finished.”
Not “I am finished.”
Not “They have won.”
Not “This is the end.”
“It is finished.”
The plan.
The sacrifice.
The debt.
The redemption.
The victory.
The work the Father and Son had agreed upon before time began—completed.
And as Jesus bowed His head, the Father bowed with Him.
Not in defeat.
Not in resignation.
But in holy, aching triumph.
When Jesus breathed His last and the earth shook beneath the weight of that moment, Heaven did not erupt in celebration. It did not rush forward in victory. It did not sing songs of conquest.
It grew quiet.
A silence settled over the courts of glory so deep that angels dared not move. The Father did not rise from His throne. He did not summon His armies. He did not speak a word.
He bowed.
He bowed under the stillness of grief.
He bowed under the weight of separation.
He bowed in the holy ache of a love that had just paid the highest price.
There was no joy yet.
Not while the Son lay still.
Not while the tomb waited in its coldness.
Not while the universe held its breath.
Calvary was finished.
But the story was not.
---
THE SILENCE OF SATURDAY — THE LONGEST DAY OF GOD
We often talk about what Saturday must have felt like for the disciples. Fear. Confusion. Grief. But we rarely ask what Saturday meant for the Father.
This was the first “day” in eternity that the Father and the Son were separated.
The Father, who had always been with the Son—who had spoken with Him, laughed with Him, rejoiced with Him since before creation—was now alone. Not alone in existence. But alone in fellowship.
Saturday was Heaven’s long night.
Saturday was the universe’s ache.
Saturday was the Father walking through the silence left behind when the voice of His Son no longer echoed through eternity.
And if a thousand years are like a day to God, then no day in all of existence ever felt longer.
We picture the Father seated on the throne in majesty. But I suspect that on that Saturday, the throne did not feel like a seat of power. It felt like an empty chair at a table where Someone should have been.
Heaven waited.
Angels waited.
Creation waited.
And the Father waited with a heart wide open with longing.
This is the part of the story that tells us what we mean to Him. Because if the Cross shows how far God would go from Heaven to save us, the silent grave shows how much God would endure in Heaven to hold onto us.
---
THE RESURRECTION — WHEN THE FATHER STOOD UP
But early Sunday morning—while the world still slept, while darkness still wrapped itself around the garden, while soldiers unknowingly guarded the grave of God’s Son—something began to stir in the heart of Heaven.
The time had come.
No more darkness.
No more stillness.
No more separation.
Redemption was finished.
The price was paid.
Death had held all it could hold—and no more.
And for the first time since Friday, the Father stood.
He stood not with hesitation, but with holy anticipation. The universe felt the shift. Angels straightened. Light gathered. Power rose like a tide. And the Father looked toward the tomb where His Son slept the sleep of the righteous dead.
Then He spoke.
Not to the angels.
Not to the saints.
Not to the universe.
He spoke to His Son.
The Bible lets the angel speak the words,
“Son of God, come forth!”
But behind that voice was the command of the Father Himself.
And not even death could resist.
Gabriel descended like lightning—brilliant, blazing, unstoppable. The soldiers fell as dead men. The stone rolled away as if flung by invisible hands. The ground trembled not in fear, but in joy.
And out from the tomb stepped Jesus.
Not limping.
Not wounded.
Not defeated.
But radiant.
Alive.
Victorious.
And Heaven erupted.
The silence of Saturday gave way to the roar of resurrection. Angel wings swept the courts. Harps burst into sound. Light gathered around the throne.
And the Father—
Oh, the Father.
The Father ran.
We rarely picture this because we picture God as still and formal. But the father of the prodigal son is not a theological illustration—
He is a reflection of the real Father’s heart.
When Jesus ascended that morning to present Himself alive, to show the marks in His hands as the eternal receipt of salvation, the Father did not wait solemnly for ceremony.
He ran.
He embraced.
He wept.
He laughed with eternal joy.
He held His Son the way a father holds the child he thought he had lost.
Heaven did not simply open its gates—
Heaven opened its heart.
The Cross did not divide the Father and the Son.
It magnified their love.
It revealed the depth of their unity.
It showed us that salvation is not simply the victory of Christ but the longing of the Father.
And as the Father held His resurrected Son, He was also holding the future—
our future.
---
THE FATHER’S JOY — THE GATES STILL OPEN
If you want to know what God feels toward you, do not start with your failures. Do not start with your shame. Do not start with your fears. Start with the Father at the resurrection—running, rejoicing, welcoming the Son home.
Because what the Father felt toward Jesus that morning is what He longs to feel toward you.
Jesus did not come out of the tomb wondering whether the Father would accept Him. And you do not walk toward Heaven wondering whether God wants you.
The Cross settled that.
The resurrection sealed that.
The empty tomb proves that every barrier between you and the Father has already been torn away.
Heaven is not reluctant to receive you.
Heaven is waiting to embrace you.
Heaven is leaning over the edge of eternity saying,
“Come home.”
---
THE FATHER BOWS AT CALVARY — THE FINAL APPEAL
At the Cross, the Father bowed under the suffering.
At the grave, the Father bowed under the silence.
But at the resurrection, the Father stood with joy that shook eternity.
And now—right now—He stands waiting still.
There will come a day, not far from now, when Jesus returns for His own. And when He enters the gates of Heaven that final time, He will not come alone.
He will bring the redeemed.
He will bring the healed.
He will bring those who have trusted Him in the dark and followed Him in the light.
He will bring those who answered His call,
who said “yes” when it would have been easier to say “no,”
who chose grace over guilt,
who walked with Him through the valley and followed Him to the mountain.
And when Jesus approaches the gates that day, I can imagine Him smiling at the Father and saying,
“Dad… look who followed Me home.”
And Heaven will bow again—not in grief, but in glory.
When Jesus breathed His last and the earth shook beneath the weight of that moment, Heaven did not erupt in celebration. It did not rush forward in victory. It did not sing songs of conquest.
It grew quiet.
A silence settled over the courts of glory so deep that angels dared not move. The Father did not rise from His throne. He did not summon His armies. He did not speak a word.
He bowed.
He bowed under the stillness of grief.
He bowed under the weight of separation.
He bowed in the holy ache of a love that had just paid the highest price.
There was no joy yet.
Not while the Son lay still.
Not while the tomb waited in its coldness.
Not while the universe held its breath.
Calvary was finished.
But the story was not.
---
THE SILENCE OF SATURDAY — THE LONGEST DAY OF GOD
We often talk about what Saturday must have felt like for the disciples. Fear. Confusion. Grief. But we rarely ask what Saturday meant for the Father.
This was the first “day” in eternity that the Father and the Son were separated.
The Father, who had always been with the Son—who had spoken with Him, laughed with Him, rejoiced with Him since before creation—was now alone. Not alone in existence. But alone in fellowship.
Saturday was Heaven’s long night.
Saturday was the universe’s ache.
Saturday was the Father walking through the silence left behind when the voice of His Son no longer echoed through eternity.
And if a thousand years are like a day to God, then no day in all of existence ever felt longer.
We picture the Father seated on the throne in majesty. But I suspect that on that Saturday, the throne did not feel like a seat of power. It felt like an empty chair at a table where Someone should have been.
Heaven waited.
Angels waited.
Creation waited.
And the Father waited with a heart wide open with longing.
This is the part of the story that tells us what we mean to Him. Because if the Cross shows how far God would go from Heaven to save us, the silent grave shows how much God would endure in Heaven to hold onto us.
---
THE RESURRECTION — WHEN THE FATHER STOOD UP
But early Sunday morning—while the world still slept, while darkness still wrapped itself around the garden, while soldiers unknowingly guarded the grave of God’s Son—something began to stir in the heart of Heaven.
The time had come.
No more darkness.
No more stillness.
No more separation.
Redemption was finished.
The price was paid.
Death had held all it could hold—and no more.
And for the first time since Friday, the Father stood.
He stood not with hesitation, but with holy anticipation. The universe felt the shift. Angels straightened. Light gathered. Power rose like a tide. And the Father looked toward the tomb where His Son slept the sleep of the righteous dead.
Then He spoke.
Not to the angels.
Not to the saints.
Not to the universe.
He spoke to His Son.
The Bible lets the angel speak the words,
“Son of God, come forth!”
But behind that voice was the command of the Father Himself.
And not even death could resist.
Gabriel descended like lightning—brilliant, blazing, unstoppable. The soldiers fell as dead men. The stone rolled away as if flung by invisible hands. The ground trembled not in fear, but in joy.
And out from the tomb stepped Jesus.
Not limping.
Not wounded.
Not defeated.
But radiant.
Alive.
Victorious.
And Heaven erupted.
The silence of Saturday gave way to the roar of resurrection. Angel wings swept the courts. Harps burst into sound. Light gathered around the throne.
And the Father—
Oh, the Father.
The Father ran.
We rarely picture this because we picture God as still and formal. But the father of the prodigal son is not a theological illustration—
He is a reflection of the real Father’s heart.
When Jesus ascended that morning to present Himself alive, to show the marks in His hands as the eternal receipt of salvation, the Father did not wait solemnly for ceremony.
He ran.
He embraced.
He wept.
He laughed with eternal joy.
He held His Son the way a father holds the child he thought he had lost.
Heaven did not simply open its gates—
Heaven opened its heart.
The Cross did not divide the Father and the Son.
It magnified their love.
It revealed the depth of their unity.
It showed us that salvation is not simply the victory of Christ but the longing of the Father.
And as the Father held His resurrected Son, He was also holding the future—
our future.
---
THE FATHER’S JOY — THE GATES STILL OPEN
If you want to know what God feels toward you, do not start with your failures. Do not start with your shame. Do not start with your fears. Start with the Father at the resurrection—running, rejoicing, welcoming the Son home.
Because what the Father felt toward Jesus that morning is what He longs to feel toward you.
Jesus did not come out of the tomb wondering whether the Father would accept Him. And you do not walk toward Heaven wondering whether God wants you.
The Cross settled that.
The resurrection sealed that.
The empty tomb proves that every barrier between you and the Father has already been torn away.
Heaven is not reluctant to receive you.
Heaven is waiting to embrace you.
Heaven is leaning over the edge of eternity saying,
“Come home.”
---
THE FATHER BOWS AT CALVARY — THE FINAL APPEAL
At the Cross, the Father bowed under the suffering.
At the grave, the Father bowed under the silence.
But at the resurrection, the Father stood with joy that shook eternity.
And now—right now—He stands waiting still.
There will come a day, not far from now, when Jesus returns for His own. And when He enters the gates of Heaven that final time, He will not come alone.
He will bring the redeemed.
He will bring the healed.
He will bring those who have trusted Him in the dark and followed Him in the light.
He will bring those who answered His call,
who said “yes” when it would have been easier to say “no,”
who chose grace over guilt,
who walked with Him through the valley and followed Him to the mountain.
And when Jesus approaches the gates that day, I can imagine Him smiling at the Father and saying,
“Dad… look who followed Me home.”
And Heaven will bow again—not in grief, but in glory.
---
YOUR MOMENT — RIGHT NOW
If the Father bowed for you…
If the Father broke for you…
If the Father waited through the darkness for you…
If the Father ran for His Son so He could run for you…
What will you do with that love?
What will you do with a God who loves you more than He loved His own comfort?
Who held back the armies of Heaven so He would never have to hold you back from entering its gates?
Who bore the agony of separation so you would never face it?
Who let His Son go so He could hold you close?
Right now, the Father is standing again.
Right now, Heaven is watching again.
Right now, eternity is leaning close.
If you want to be one of those who follows Jesus home…
If you want to say, “Father, I surrender. I trust You. I choose You,”
then this moment is for you.
Not tomorrow.
Not later.
Now.
When the trumpet sounds, you will not want to be caught wondering.
When the King returns, you will not want to be looking back.
When the gates open, you will want to be ready to say,
“I’m coming home.”
So I invite you—
as the Spirit moves in your heart,
as the Father draws you with a love deeper than the grave,
as Jesus stands beside you with hands still marked by redemption—
come.
Come with your hurt.
Come with your fears.
Come with your doubts.
Come with your failures.
Come with your hopes.
Come with your longing to belong.
Come to the Father who bowed at Calvary.
Come to the Father who stood at the resurrection.
Come to the Father who waits for you now.
And when we stand together to sing the closing song,
if the Spirit is speaking to your heart,
if you hear the Father whisper, “I want you,”
then step out and meet me here.
Because Heaven has already decided:
when Jesus returns…
you belong in that crowd that follows Him home.
