God is a drummer.  

He is a constant rhythm.  Steady, precise, immutable.

He is ever bound to His cadence.  Obedient to His own law of time and tempo within the measure.

His rhythm is fixed.  Perpetual.  Unyielding.

Christ is a melody.

The melody moves within the edges of order, permitted to extend beyond the boundaries of that rhythm but still tethered to its course.

He can ascend His melody to fluttery peaks of faint tones and then breathe against it His tenor, commanding the notes to the center of the scale where they dance clear, confident and familiar.

He can gather the melody and pull its weight down through dark descension and rest it there, at the depth of a heavy ocean, floating within the calm and somber.     

The melody is the same for all but is unique for each that hears it.  It meets it's listener's ear where it needs to.  Neither is the melody without the rhythm or the rhythm without the melody to compose the song.

The servant is the voice.

The servant feels the rhythm, he listens to the melody and he sings the words that they inspire.  He sometimes sings in perfect concert, he sometimes sings off key.  He sometimes has to strain his voice to deliver his intention, he sometimes whispers his exposition.  The servant does not have perfect command of his instrument, unlike the drummer, unlike the melody maker.  But they afford him confidence and they distract from his mistakes.  They are his support and cover as he sings to the listener, sometimes unsure of how the words may enter its ear, sometimes forgetting a line or a lyric, the servant still sings.

We are the listener.

We stand before the drummer, the melody and the voice.  We close our eyes to listen.  The rhythm thuds within us, we move our body to it.  It is perfect.  We synchronize to its beat.  Among a crowd of listeners, the melody plays.  It falls upon the listeners, the notes like drops of rain.  The melody is the same for all, but unique for each that hears it.  It's familiar and it's curious.  It meets the listener's ear where it needs to.  It is thrilling.  It is somber.  It is brilliant.  

The servant sings.  His voice is meek but assured, loud but tempered.  He sings the words he was inspired, you understand them.  Placed among the melody and endorsed by the rhythm, they  pierce your heart.  You forgive the strain of the servants voice.  He is off key.  He forgets a line or lyric.  You find this beautiful.  You admire him as he looks back with concern and doubt to his drummer and melody maker and they nod to him.  His imperfection is another instrument to the music.  You can hear this instrument and understand its placement within the music, others can't.

You look to your left and to your right and begin to see other listeners moving further back, away from the performance.  They are distracted by the imperfections and errors of the servant.  His voice is strained.  He, at times, is off key.  He sometimes forgets a line or lyric.  They find this unforgiveable.  If the rhythm and the melody are perfect, so should be the voice.  They no longer can hear the music or appreciate it's intention.  They become critical of a line or lyric but forget of the other words that were sung with perfection.  They begin to doubt the melody, when once it was familiar and brilliant, they now place their hands over their ears.  The thud of the drummer's beat no longer resounds within them and fades away, defeated by the shallow beat of their own heart.

They scold you and walk away.  They pursue other music.  They demand it's perfection.  They are entitled to it.

You turn back to the servant.  He is the voice.  Christ is the melody.  God is a drummer.  You step forward.