A question was born at a sea. A handful of slaves stood on the far bank with wet clothes and dry feet, looked at the water that had closed over their enemy, and sang the highest words a human being can know: who is like You among the gods, YHWH? And that question set out on a journey.
It climbed the mountain, where God cried out His own Name over the shards of a golden calf — compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, bearing. It was sung in the temple, by a barren woman and an old king and a man up to his neck in the mire, down into the bones. It was flung out into the world against the dead idols, which had to be carried while He carried. It was crowned by a prophet on the rubble of his city, who saw that the incomparability of God lay not in His power but in His forgiveness. And then, when no one expected it any longer, the question was given a face: it slept in a boat, bent over a paralytic, ran down the road in the form of a father, and poured itself out onto a cross. It defeated the dragon who had tried to steal it. And at the last sea it was sung by a multitude no one can count, on the eve of a wedding. From the first sea to the last, from the first note to the last — one question, and one answer, that grew louder and louder through it all until it was no longer a question but a Name.
And now the question stands before a gate. It is the oldest gate-liturgy we possess, a song of David that rang out as the ark entered the holy city, carried on the shoulders of priests, with all Israel dancing and rejoicing around it. Two choirs call to each other across the walls. Lift up your heads, O gates, sings the one; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in! And from within, from behind the closed gate, the answer comes back as a question — the same question, now in its royal form: who is He, this King of glory?
And now all of Scripture may answer, and it does not whisper. Who is He, this King of glory? He is the Holy One before whom the seraphim cover their faces with two of their wings, whose throne Isaiah saw, high and lifted up, with the hem of His robe filling the whole temple, while the burning creatures called out to one another without ceasing — holy, holy, holy is YHWH of hosts, the whole earth is full of His glory — until the doorposts shook in their sockets and the house filled with smoke. He is the Prince of life whom John saw on Patmos, and before whom he fell down as though dead at His feet: the hair white as snow, the eyes like flames of fire, the feet like glowing bronze from a furnace, the voice like the roar of many waters, and the face — the face like the sun shining in its full strength, too bright to look at and stay alive. He is the King of the cosmos, who hung the Pleiades and Orion in the sky and calls every star by its name, who makes the clouds His chariot and dwells in a thundercloud and inhabits an unapproachable light that no one can come near. He is the Most High who deposes kings and sets up kings, who lifts up empires and sweeps them away like chaff before the wind, before whom the nations are no more than a drop in a bucket. He is so awesome that one angel of His, one single messenger in the night, made a hundred and eighty-five thousand soldiers of the mightiest army on earth fall down dead in a single moment, so that at daybreak nothing remained but silence and a field full of the dead. He is enthroned in the heavenly Jerusalem, among ten thousand times ten thousand rejoicing angels, and He is a consuming fire — a God who drives the shudder into the marrow of all who draw near to Him.
That is the King of glory. YHWH of hosts, strong and mighty, mighty in battle — He is the One. And the gates open, and the King comes in, and the question that was once born at a sea no longer stands outside begging for an answer; it walks, like a recognized beloved, through the wide-open gate.
And here the wonder happens that this whole book has wanted to say, and it is so great that language almost buckles under it. For that God — the God before whom the seraphim cover their eyes, whose face is brighter than the sun, who fells armies with a single messenger and dwells in a light no one can approach — that God is the Father who comes running down the road to a son who smells of pigs. That God lets Himself be woken in the night by a child who is thirsty and comes for a cup of water. That God bends down toward you, remembers that you are dust, and carries you from the womb to your gray hairs. His mercies are new every morning — new, every day, as if He makes them fresh again in the night for the one who is about to wake — and great, infinitely great, is His faithfulness. That is the matchlessness that makes all of Scripture reel: not that He is high, for high gods have been invented enough, and not that He is near, for tame household gods were plenty — but that the Most High, the consuming, the unapproachable, is the same One who stoops like a Father, and runs like a Father, and sings like a Father over His homecoming child. The greatest power in the universe and the tenderest heart in the universe dwell in one and the same God. Who is like Him? No one. There is not one.
But there is another question in that same song, and it is addressed to us. For before the gates open, David asks: who may climb the mountain of YHWH, who may stand in His holy place? And the answer is honest and hard: the one who is clean of hands and pure of heart. That shuts us all out, for whose hands are clean? And precisely here the whole journey of this book draws together into a single point. We do not climb the mountain on our own clean hands; we go up in the hands of the Lamb, who was clean in our place, who opened the scroll no one else could open, who bought us with His own blood. The gate that was closed against our guilt stands open because the King of glory first went in through a lower gate — the gate of a grave — and came out again. And so we too may go in: not because our hands are clean, but because His were, and He has wrapped them around us.
And here this book stops being a book. For the question "who is like You?" was never a puzzle asking for a solution; from the first page it was a song of praise asking for a voice. All those chapters long we have studied it — counted, weighed, teased apart down to the letters — but studying was never the goal. The goal was this: that you would come to sing it. That it would roll off your lips, not as a riddle but as a shout of joy, as it did for those slaves at the sea, with a tambourine in hand and the seawater still in their hair. You no longer have to solve it. You may lift it up.
And you may do it with the boldness of a child. There was that child in the palace full of whispering courtiers, who alone walks into the king's bedroom, in the middle of the night, and wakes him because he is thirsty and wants a cup of water — not out of insolence, but because he knows this is his father. That is how you may come. Not as a scholar who has his proof in order, not as a subject who weighs his words, but as a child brought home again, who simply walks in and calls his Father by Name.
And if you are reading this from the dark — if you have come here with a faith that has broken down, with a night that will not pass, with an image of God damaged by a father who was not there or never satisfied, by a church that hurt you, by years in which God felt above all like someone who found you just not good enough — then this ending is written for you, and it is the tenderest thing this book has to say. The God at the end of this journey is not the God you feared. He is the Father who handed over the inheritance and kept searching the road. He is the Bridegroom who bought back His adulterous bride. He is the Lamb who was worthy when no one else was. He is the God who stoops to the ash heap, who remembers that you are dust, who carries you from the womb to your gray hairs. Lay your damaged image down beside Him, and it will turn out how crooked it stood. And if you cannot yet believe that you are welcome — then do not begin with believing, but with coming. The first step is enough; all the rest — the running, the embrace, the feast — is His.
And then, at the end of everything, only one thing remains, and it is not a conclusion. A book like this ought to end with a summation, a final proof, a neatly nailed-shut argument — but that is precisely what it does not do, for no summation befits the Incomparable One. For Him only one posture is fitting, and all of Scripture is full of it: the fall to one's knees. Not the fall of one crushed by a tyrant, but the fall of one who is finally home — of one who has chased the question through seas and mountains and temples and prophets and a manger and a cross and a broken-open grave, and who at the end of all that seeking discovers that the One sought stood watching the whole time. You go down on your knees. And as you bow, you feel two arms around you, for the Father has come running, and the Bridegroom has recognized His bride, and the Lamb calls you by your name.
Who is a God like You? No one. No one dwells so high, and no one stoops so low. No one is so righteous, and no one forgives so completely. No one let Himself be humbled so far to bring home a beloved so lost. There is no one like You — and it is no longer a question, and it is no proof; it is the first line of a song that never stops again.
To Him now, who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you blameless before His glory, with great joy — the only God, our Savior, through Jesus Christ our Lord — to Him be the glory and the majesty, the power and the authority, from before all ages, and now, and to all eternity. Amen.
A note on the source text. The gate-liturgy and "who is the King of glory?" — Psalm 24 (the ascent of the mountain, 24:3-4; the open gates, 24:7-10). The majesty of the King: "holy, holy, holy" and the shaking thresholds — Isaiah 6:1-4; the glorified Prince of life with the face like the sun — Revelation 1:12-17; the Creator of the Pleiades and Orion — Job 38:31, Amos 5:8; the stars by name — Psalm 147:4, Isaiah 40:26; "an unapproachable light, that no one can come near" — 1 Timothy 6:16; deposing and setting up kings — Daniel 2:21; the nations as a drop in a bucket — Isaiah 40:15; the one angel and the hundred and eighty-five thousand — 2 Kings 19:35; the heavenly Jerusalem with its tens of thousands of angels and "a consuming fire" — Hebrews 12:22, 29. The Father who runs — Luke 15:20; the mercies that are new every morning, "great is Your faithfulness" — Lamentations 3:22-23. The closing doxology — Jude 24-25. The threads come together from the whole book: the song at the sea (Exodus 15), the Name on the mountain (Exodus 34), the crown of Micah (7:18-20), the descent and the Lamb, and the wedding (Revelation 19). The divine Name as YHWH.
A question was born at a sea. A handful of slaves stood on the far bank with wet clothes and dry feet, looked at the water that had closed over their enemy, and sang the highest words a human being can know: who is like You among the gods, YHWH? And that question set out on a journey.
It climbed the mountain, where God cried out His own Name over the shards of a golden calf — compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, bearing. It was sung in the temple, by a barren woman and an old king and a man up to his neck in the mire, down into the bones. It was flung out into the world against the dead idols, which had to be carried while He carried. It was crowned by a prophet on the rubble of his city, who saw that the incomparability of God lay not in His power but in His forgiveness. And then, when no one expected it any longer, the question was given a face: it slept in a boat, bent over a paralytic, ran down the road in the form of a father, and poured itself out onto a cross. It defeated the dragon who had tried to steal it. And at the last sea it was sung by a multitude no one can count, on the eve of a wedding. From the first sea to the last, from the first note to the last — one question, and one answer, that grew louder and louder through it all until it was no longer a question but a Name.
And now the question stands before a gate. It is the oldest gate-liturgy we possess, a song of David that rang out as the ark entered the holy city, carried on the shoulders of priests, with all Israel dancing and rejoicing around it. Two choirs call to each other across the walls. Lift up your heads, O gates, sings the one; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in! And from within, from behind the closed gate, the answer comes back as a question — the same question, now in its royal form: who is He, this King of glory?
And now all of Scripture may answer, and it does not whisper. Who is He, this King of glory? He is the Holy One before whom the seraphim cover their faces with two of their wings, whose throne Isaiah saw, high and lifted up, with the hem of His robe filling the whole temple, while the burning creatures called out to one another without ceasing — holy, holy, holy is YHWH of hosts, the whole earth is full of His glory — until the doorposts shook in their sockets and the house filled with smoke. He is the Prince of life whom John saw on Patmos, and before whom he fell down as though dead at His feet: the hair white as snow, the eyes like flames of fire, the feet like glowing bronze from a furnace, the voice like the roar of many waters, and the face — the face like the sun shining in its full strength, too bright to look at and stay alive. He is the King of the cosmos, who hung the Pleiades and Orion in the sky and calls every star by its name, who makes the clouds His chariot and dwells in a thundercloud and inhabits an unapproachable light that no one can come near. He is the Most High who deposes kings and sets up kings, who lifts up empires and sweeps them away like chaff before the wind, before whom the nations are no more than a drop in a bucket. He is so awesome that one angel of His, one single messenger in the night, made a hundred and eighty-five thousand soldiers of the mightiest army on earth fall down dead in a single moment, so that at daybreak nothing remained but silence and a field full of the dead. He is enthroned in the heavenly Jerusalem, among ten thousand times ten thousand rejoicing angels, and He is a consuming fire — a God who drives the shudder into the marrow of all who draw near to Him.
That is the King of glory. YHWH of hosts, strong and mighty, mighty in battle — He is the One. And the gates open, and the King comes in, and the question that was once born at a sea no longer stands outside begging for an answer; it walks, like a recognized beloved, through the wide-open gate.
And here the wonder happens that this whole book has wanted to say, and it is so great that language almost buckles under it. For that God — the God before whom the seraphim cover their eyes, whose face is brighter than the sun, who fells armies with a single messenger and dwells in a light no one can approach — that God is the Father who comes running down the road to a son who smells of pigs. That God lets Himself be woken in the night by a child who is thirsty and comes for a cup of water. That God bends down toward you, remembers that you are dust, and carries you from the womb to your gray hairs. His mercies are new every morning — new, every day, as if He makes them fresh again in the night for the one who is about to wake — and great, infinitely great, is His faithfulness. That is the matchlessness that makes all of Scripture reel: not that He is high, for high gods have been invented enough, and not that He is near, for tame household gods were plenty — but that the Most High, the consuming, the unapproachable, is the same One who stoops like a Father, and runs like a Father, and sings like a Father over His homecoming child. The greatest power in the universe and the tenderest heart in the universe dwell in one and the same God. Who is like Him? No one. There is not one.
But there is another question in that same song, and it is addressed to us. For before the gates open, David asks: who may climb the mountain of YHWH, who may stand in His holy place? And the answer is honest and hard: the one who is clean of hands and pure of heart. That shuts us all out, for whose hands are clean? And precisely here the whole journey of this book draws together into a single point. We do not climb the mountain on our own clean hands; we go up in the hands of the Lamb, who was clean in our place, who opened the scroll no one else could open, who bought us with His own blood. The gate that was closed against our guilt stands open because the King of glory first went in through a lower gate — the gate of a grave — and came out again. And so we too may go in: not because our hands are clean, but because His were, and He has wrapped them around us.
And here this book stops being a book. For the question "who is like You?" was never a puzzle asking for a solution; from the first page it was a song of praise asking for a voice. All those chapters long we have studied it — counted, weighed, teased apart down to the letters — but studying was never the goal. The goal was this: that you would come to sing it. That it would roll off your lips, not as a riddle but as a shout of joy, as it did for those slaves at the sea, with a tambourine in hand and the seawater still in their hair. You no longer have to solve it. You may lift it up.
And you may do it with the boldness of a child. There was that child in the palace full of whispering courtiers, who alone walks into the king's bedroom, in the middle of the night, and wakes him because he is thirsty and wants a cup of water — not out of insolence, but because he knows this is his father. That is how you may come. Not as a scholar who has his proof in order, not as a subject who weighs his words, but as a child brought home again, who simply walks in and calls his Father by Name.
And if you are reading this from the dark — if you have come here with a faith that has broken down, with a night that will not pass, with an image of God damaged by a father who was not there or never satisfied, by a church that hurt you, by years in which God felt above all like someone who found you just not good enough — then this ending is written for you, and it is the tenderest thing this book has to say. The God at the end of this journey is not the God you feared. He is the Father who handed over the inheritance and kept searching the road. He is the Bridegroom who bought back His adulterous bride. He is the Lamb who was worthy when no one else was. He is the God who stoops to the ash heap, who remembers that you are dust, who carries you from the womb to your gray hairs. Lay your damaged image down beside Him, and it will turn out how crooked it stood. And if you cannot yet believe that you are welcome — then do not begin with believing, but with coming. The first step is enough; all the rest — the running, the embrace, the feast — is His.
And then, at the end of everything, only one thing remains, and it is not a conclusion. A book like this ought to end with a summation, a final proof, a neatly nailed-shut argument — but that is precisely what it does not do, for no summation befits the Incomparable One. For Him only one posture is fitting, and all of Scripture is full of it: the fall to one's knees. Not the fall of one crushed by a tyrant, but the fall of one who is finally home — of one who has chased the question through seas and mountains and temples and prophets and a manger and a cross and a broken-open grave, and who at the end of all that seeking discovers that the One sought stood watching the whole time. You go down on your knees. And as you bow, you feel two arms around you, for the Father has come running, and the Bridegroom has recognized His bride, and the Lamb calls you by your name.
Who is a God like You? No one. No one dwells so high, and no one stoops so low. No one is so righteous, and no one forgives so completely. No one let Himself be humbled so far to bring home a beloved so lost. There is no one like You — and it is no longer a question, and it is no proof; it is the first line of a song that never stops again.
To Him now, who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you blameless before His glory, with great joy — the only God, our Savior, through Jesus Christ our Lord — to Him be the glory and the majesty, the power and the authority, from before all ages, and now, and to all eternity. Amen.
A note on the source text. The gate-liturgy and "who is the King of glory?" — Psalm 24 (the ascent of the mountain, 24:3-4; the open gates, 24:7-10). The majesty of the King: "holy, holy, holy" and the shaking thresholds — Isaiah 6:1-4; the glorified Prince of life with the face like the sun — Revelation 1:12-17; the Creator of the Pleiades and Orion — Job 38:31, Amos 5:8; the stars by name — Psalm 147:4, Isaiah 40:26; "an unapproachable light, that no one can come near" — 1 Timothy 6:16; deposing and setting up kings — Daniel 2:21; the nations as a drop in a bucket — Isaiah 40:15; the one angel and the hundred and eighty-five thousand — 2 Kings 19:35; the heavenly Jerusalem with its tens of thousands of angels and "a consuming fire" — Hebrews 12:22, 29. The Father who runs — Luke 15:20; the mercies that are new every morning, "great is Your faithfulness" — Lamentations 3:22-23. The closing doxology — Jude 24-25. The threads come together from the whole book: the song at the sea (Exodus 15), the Name on the mountain (Exodus 34), the crown of Micah (7:18-20), the descent and the Lamb, and the wedding (Revelation 19). The divine Name as YHWH.