Veil Split, Light Wakes

By Brandon Haines

They stitched the veil thick to keep holiness at a distance. A warning woven in every thread: “Come no closer.”

But mercy doesn’t wait for permission. It walks in, bleeds out, and tears down what fear built. The priests kept their rituals. The crowd kept their mockery. The soldier kept his silence—

until the sky cracked and the earth groaned and the Lamb spoke, “It is finished.”

And now— not someday, not after I clean up, not when I’ve earned it— but right now I can have a conversation with God.

No rope around my waist. No incense to mask my shame. Just Love that speaks of better things than I ever could. No more massive curtain— sixty feet high, thirty feet wide, four inches thick— and still no match for mercy.

No more waiting. No more wondering if I’m clean enough or worthy enough. Because the Lamb gave His life. Therefore I know I am worthy enough for His Love.
Therefore I am worthy enough for His Mercy

And so—before the light fully wakes,
I open my mouth and let the night spill out: the worries that stalked my sleep, the shadows that whispered their lies.

I lay them down at Your feet, Lord, before the sun even thinks about rising. Not because You don’t know them, but because I need to remember who I’m talking to.

You see the crooked paths I walk, the traps set by those who smile too easily, the storms that gather without warning. You know how loud the world gets when I’m trying to hear Your voice.

So I stand here— not polished, not perfect, just awake enough to say: Lead me. Straighten what I can’t. Guard me against what I can’t see.

And as the day unfolds, wrap me in the kind of protection that feels like a shield and a song at the same time.

Let joy rise in me like the sun climbing the horizon— slow, steady, unstoppable.

And let Your love be the first thing I breathe in and the last thing I lean on when the day is done.