We were made for more.
Lanterns rise in the night,
and something in our hearts whispers: “They’re for me.”
In the beginning, God said:
“Let us make human beings in our image, to be like us.”
Crowned with glory, clothed with dignity,
set in creation as living reminders of His rule and love.
Our worth was settled before we drew breath.
Not in our performance.
Not in our appearance.
Not in our productivity.
But in the unshakable truth:
we bear the image of God.
Yet a lie entered.
“You will be like God.”
And humanity forgot its name.
The image, marred but not erased,
faded beneath shame, pride, and fear.
We see the cracks everywhere:
people reduced to numbers,
lives measured in usefulness,
neighbors treated as objects.
But this is not what it means to be human.
God did not leave us in our lostness.
The Word became flesh.
Jesus, the visible image of the invisible God,
came to restore us to ourselves.
He walked among us—
justice for the oppressed,
mercy for the broken,
humility before the Father.
In Him, we see the glory of humanity
fully alive.
At the feet of Jesus, the shamed woman stood.
Accusers gathered, stones in hand.
But He stooped low,
lifted her dignity,
and gave her a new beginning.
This is what it means to be human:
not condemned,
but redeemed.
Not forgotten,
but named.
And so the ache remains—
like lanterns rising,
calling us home.
In Christ, the image is being restored.
In Christ, we are sons and daughters again.
In Christ, we learn what it means
to be truly human.
