Tears at the Writing Desk

In the autumn of 1741, George Frideric Handel locked himself away in his modest home on Brook Street in London. For twenty-four extraordinary days, from August 22 to September 14, the German-born composer barely ate or slept as he set Charles Jennens's biblical libretto to music. When his servant brought him meals, he found them untouched, the plates cold. But it was while composing the Hallelujah Chorus that something broke open in Handel. His servant discovered him with tears streaming down his face. "I did think I did see all Heaven before me," Handel said, "and the great God Himself."

A fifty-six-year-old man, sitting in a cramped London study with ink-stained fingers, wept because the glory of God had filled that ordinary room.

Isaiah heard the seraphim cry, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory." Not just the temple — the whole earth. The doorposts shook. The room filled with smoke. And Isaiah was undone.

That is what the holiness of God does. It does not wait for grand cathedrals or perfect circumstances. It invaded a prophet's vision in Jerusalem. It overwhelmed a composer's study on Brook Street. And it will meet you in your kitchen, your car, your hospital room — wherever you stop long enough to listen. The question is not whether God's glory fills the space around you. The question is whether you have eyes to see it and a heart willing to be undone by it.