Holy of Holies

Back in 2005, when Troy and I went to Israel, one of the places we visited was Tel Arad. Among the ruins is an Israelite temple, including the remains of the Holy of Holies. When I look at the picture I took, with the blue plastic sign labeled in white lettering "Holy of Holies" next to it, I still get a sort of chill that starts somewhere at the base of my spine and winds its way up between my shoulder blades.

Holy of Holies. Most Holy Place. A place reserved only for the High Priest and then only on the Day of Atonement. That I can take a picture, that I can stand only feet away--instead of being limited to the Court of the Women--is astounding. And it isn't lost on me. For some reason, I can't even say the phrase Holy of Holies without feeling reverent and utterly unworthy.

But even more astounding is the fact that I can go before the Holiest of Holies any time I want. The veil was torn. It was finished. I can go straight to the Lord and say, "Here I am."

Take Me In
Take me past the outer courts
Into the Holy place
Past the brazen altar
Lord I want to see Your face
Pass me by the crowds of people
The priests who sing Your praise
I hunger and thirst for Your righteousness
And it's only found one place

Take me in to the Holy of Holies
Take me in by the blood of the Lamb
Take me in to the Holy of Holies
Take the coal, cleanse my lips, here I am