My mom sent me a text the other day with a lyric idea "return to your strongholds, oh, you prisoners of hope," written by the prophet Zechariah to the Hebrew captives in Babylon (
Zechariah 9:12).
The prisoners of hope,
exiled in a strange land after the fall of Jerusalem,
and yet maintaining an expectation of redemption.
The prisoners of hope,
some of which were born into exile,
the memories of the kingdom passed down through song and lament.
The prisoners of hope,
captivated captives,
reminded of sights yet unseen,
confident in their eventual return from the borders of their captivity.
The prisoners of hope,
imagining a return from exile,
to that beautiful city.
And here I am tonight, also an exile. At present, we're on the outside of the dance and our hearts know it, the weight of our captivity ever before us. We've been banished from Eden and an angel with a fiery sword stands guard on the border preventing our return. And we're left wondering,
What was it like before the fall,
before the ruins,
before the first lie,
before the great divorce,
before paradise was drowned in sand dunes?
What was it like before the night,
before the fight,
before the war,
before the use of force,
before the first tear from a mothers eye?
What was it like before the counterfeits,
before the wolves in sheep's clothing,
before corporate greed,
before apathy,
before indifference,
before hypocrisy,
before thieves in suits,
before the needy were left in their need,
before the oppressed were abandoned in the cold halls of bureaucracy,
before the world came under the control of the rebel prince of the power of the air.
And I, like the Psalmist, lament:
"By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion.
There on the poplars we hung our harps
for there our captors asked us for songs,
our tormentors demanded songs of joy;
they said, 'Sing us one of the songs of Zion!'
How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?
If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill.
May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you,
if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy." (
Psalm 137)
But I'm not hanging up my stringed instruments on these weeping willow trees. Not a chance!
Because the King is still on the throne,
enthroned above the heavens,
yet also enthroned in the praises of his people,
enthroned in the songs of the exiled prisoners of hope.
The King is still on the throne,
as tidings from a distant land,
echoes of an ancient song which I've not heard before,
remind me to maintain hope,
remind me that hope is not giving up,
remind me to look to the east at first light.
The King is still on the throne,
even when the stars fall,
even when the moon turns blood red.
The King is on the throne,
even when the bottom drops out,
even when it seems like the defenseless and the oppressed are forgotten.
Return to your strongholds, oh, you prisoners of hope
for the King is still on the throne.
The King will take captivity captive,
inviting us back inside to one day walk again in the cool of the day.
We will make our way back home.
We will return to our design.
We will get back to the beautiful.
So don't lose sight of the unseen my friends.
We'll keep on singing these songs of Zion,
for now as exiled prisoners of hope,
but some day before the throne by a sea of glass like unto crystal.
"Until I die I'll sing these songs on the shores of Babylon.
Still looking for a home in a world where I belong.
Where the weak are finally strong, where the righteous right the wrongs.
