I see a bride. She is beautiful, dressed in white.
The bride begins to run. She stumbles and falls.
Her dress rips and stains in her struggle to get back up.
This bride, she does get up. Struggling to her feet, she throws the train of her dress over her arm, and starts to run again. An unsteady gait picks up speed, and soon she is running even faster than before.
Her eyes are fixed on a groom, bathed in light. She keeps tripping and falling, but will do whatever it takes to get to him. She’ll crawl if she has to.
Suddenly, more women begin to appear. She looks over her shoulder to see the parade of women joining her. Their faces are dear and beautiful. Some young and fresh. Some lined and determined. Dressed in white gowns, eyes fixed, they run towards the groom.
Are these women her competition? Does she run with them or against them?
The group merges together. They link arms, and they run.
Brides continue to fall, but they are quick to help one another up. The once white and radiant group, now struggle forward muddied and bloodied. The fragile trappings of pretty exchanged for indescribable beauty.
A procession of brides who are bridesmaids.
This is the story of the Son of God
Hanging on a cross for me
And it ends with a bride and groom
And a wedding by a glassy sea
This is the story of a bride in white
Singing on her wedding day
Of the God who was and is
To stand before a bride who sings
Holy, Holy, Holy . . .