One line of one song keeps running through my mind. It’s a song I listen to a disproportionate number of times each December, but I don’t ever remember these particular words sticking with me like this.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.
A thrill of hope. A thrill. A sudden sharp feeling of excitement. A shivering, tingling sensation.
What last thrilled me?
Was it hope? Something desired with expectation of obtainment?
Have I ever felt the thrill of hope—the sudden tingle of excitement caused by the confident expectation of a desire’s imminent reality?
And the juxtaposition of a thrill of hope with the weary world. I’m sure the world was weary before Jesus was born. It makes logical sense. But I know the world is weary now. We wear our exhaustion, our despair, our fatigued patience for all to see. It’s in the lines of grief and anger and heartbreak creasing faces on the news and in the line at the grocery store and in conversation about the politics of this nation and world.
But the thought of a thrill of hope that would cause our weary world to rejoice . . . it’s almost inconceivable. A singular hope shared and realized across all humanity.
That’s what rent time from before Christ to anno Domini. That’s the night divine. That’s what broke with the morn.
New and glorious indeed.
As I sit in the waiting of Advent I listen to the song on repeat, and I pray that line breaks true in hearts this Christmas.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices . . .