What Kind of Father

I was taught that God was watching with a ledger and a scale, That justice had a price tag and that mercy could grow stale, That the Father turned his face away until the debt was paid— But I've been sitting with that image and I find myself afraid. What kind of father holds his arms back till a ransom has been made? What kind of love requires the blood of the innocent be paid? I have seen a father run—I've read it, felt it, known— He ran before the son could speak, and welcomed him back home. What if mercy needs no altar, and forgiveness needs no cost? What if love was never waiting on a transaction to be crossed? What if God is not a creditor but a Father through and through— Who loved you in your wandering, and loves you coming home too? The cross was not a payment plan arranged before the world— It was a revelation of the darkness we had hurled At the one who came among us with no scepter and no sword, Just the stubborn tender mercy of a wholly loving Lord. He did not die to change the mind of God toward humankind— The Father's mind was never closed, his mercy never blind. He lived to show us who God is, he died to show us who we are— And rose to show us where we're going—home beyond the farthest star. What if mercy needs no altar, and forgiveness needs no cost? What if love was never waiting on a transaction to be crossed? What if God is not a creditor but a Father through and through— Who loved you in your wandering, and loves you coming home too? You don't have to shrink the Father to fit inside a court of law— He is vaster than our theology, more gentle than our awe. Let the old fear slowly quiet, let the new light find its place— You were always loved completely, you were always held in grace. What kind of Father?—one who runs. What kind of love?—it holds. What kind of God waits on a debt? Not the one the gospel tells. Not the one who made the morning, not the one who knows your name— He was love before the cross was raised, and love remains the same.