He Is Mine: The Gift Before the Surrender

“I belong to my lover, and my lover belongs to me…” Song of Songs 6:3

The Line That Stopped Me

I remember hearing the line “I am Yours and You are mine” in a song. Something about it caught me. The words were right, but I wasn’t sure I believed—or even understood—them.

When I first heard it, I thought: If I give myself fully to God—if I’m faithful, obedient, surrendered—then He will give Himself to me. It felt like an equation, an exchange. And like most exchanges, it depended on my performance.

But over time, something began to shift. I realized I had the order all wrong. It isn’t I am Yours, and then You are mine. It’s the opposite. He gives Himself first. He always has.

The Word “Mine” — Not Possession, but Communion

In the beginning, when Adam first looked upon the woman, wonder rose to his lips:

“This one, at last, is bone of my bones
and flesh of my flesh;
This one shall be called ‘woman,’
for out of man this one has been taken.” Genesis 2:23

In Hebrew, the words ish (man) and ishah (woman) echo each other—like two notes from the same melody. They are not words of ownership, but of recognition. Adam isn’t claiming the woman as property; he’s beholding her as shared being—“She is of me.” “She belongs with me.”

This is not possession. It’s communion.

In the language of Scripture, to say mine is not to grasp but to unite. It’s the language of covenant—of belonging that flows from love freely given. It’s the way love speaks when it has nothing left to prove.

So when we whisper to God, “You are mine,” it isn’t audacity—it’s faith. It’s daring to believe what He has already said to us:

“Because you are precious in my eyes and honored, and I love you, I give people in return for you, and nations in exchange for your life.” Isaiah 43:4

The word mine becomes the quiet echo of His first declaration—not a claim of possession, but the confession of shared love.

He Gave Himself First

The truth of the Gospel is shockingly simple and endlessly hard to believe: Jesus didn’t wait for our surrender. He gave Himself before we even knew how to respond.

“We love because He first loved us.” 1 John 4:19

The Cross is not our reward for faithfulness—it’s the proof of His. And in the Eucharist, that same love takes flesh again and again.

At every altar, He repeats the words first spoken in the upper room:

“This is my body, which will be given for you.” Luke 22:19

Not offered in response to your worthiness, but given before you could deserve it.

This is the divine reversal—heaven stooping low, offering not a transaction, but a gift. When the priest lifts the Host, it is as if Christ Himself whispers:

“You are Mine, because I have already made Myself yours.”

The Eucharist is not merely something we receive—it is Someone who lets Himself be received. It is Jesus saying, with unguarded tenderness: Take Me. I am yours. No earning. No exchange. Only love—poured out, waiting to be believed.

Eyelash to Eyelash

A priest once explained the Sacrament of Reconciliation through its etymology. The Latin word reconciliāre combines re- (“again”) with conciliare (“to bring together”) and even carries echoes of cilia—eyelashes. To be reconciled, then, is not only to be made friends again, but to be brought eyelash to eyelash—face to face after distance.

That image has stayed with me—so near, so personal. No distance. No downcast eyes. Just the Father’s gaze meeting ours again, as it did in Eden before shame.

This is what happens in confession—not God’s anger appeased, but intimacy restored. He doesn’t want polite remorse from afar. He wants your direct gaze—eyes meeting eyes, soul meeting soul. He wants to be close enough to touch your tears.

And in the Eucharist, that same desire burns even deeper. The God who meets you eyelash to eyelash in mercy now comes to dwell within you in love. He humbles Himself under the appearance of bread so He can be not only near, but one with you—heart to heart, flesh to flesh.

The Infinite saying, again and again: I am yours.

When It Feels Impossible

I am still learning this. These mysteries are true — but sometimes they feel impossible. God desires an intimate relationship with me? Why? What have I done? No — it must be someone else.

“I am Yours and You are mine” sounds beautiful, but surely it belongs to someone holier—someone who’s made it.

This truth—this belonging—is for you. For the tired, the ashamed, the angry, the ones who can’t believe they’re still being pursued. He does love you like that. You can’t run or hide from His love. He will chase you with reckless abandon again and again and again. You can’t stay lost in your shame or buried in your fear. He will come for you.

He longs for you—not because of what you’ve done, but because of who you are.

It’s like the first time you hear your child giggle. Your heart bursts open with delight for them. If you measured the exchange, it wouldn’t make sense. You’ve given up sleep, time, money, “freedom”—and they’ve done nothing to earn it. And still, your soul delights in them.

That’s how He loves you. Not because you’ve proven worthy, but because you are His—and astonishingly, because He has made Himself yours.

The Final Word: The Wounded Union

To say “You are mine” to God is not pride—it’s participation in the mystery of love that first said it to us. The Cross, the Eucharist, and every absolution whispered over us in confession are God’s “I am yours.” We only learn to say “I am Yours” by receiving that gift first. And when we finally do—when we stop striving to earn what has already been given—the soul rests.

St. John of the Cross knew this rest, though it came through fire. He spent long months imprisoned by his own brothers—beaten, starved, left in darkness. And yet, from that cell—cold, wounded, and forgotten—he wrote some of the most luminous words in Christian history.

His prison became a bridal chamber. There, stripped of everything, he found the One who could not be taken from him. He discovered that union with God does not come after perfection, but within our poverty—that the soul’s deepest meeting with Love often happens in the ruins of what we thought we had to offer.

For St. John, divine intimacy was not a prize for the strong; it was mercy for the broken. God’s love does not wait for us to be clean. It comes into the cell, the shame, the silence—and names us beloved.

A Prayer

Jesus, my Beloved,
I am slow to understand, stubborn in my pride, and still think I can earn Your love.
Thank You for Your patience—for giving Yourself so freely, again and again.
Quiet my mind, my heart, my striving soul.
Help me to believe that You, my Almighty and all-powerful God, could love me as I am.
Teach me to receive that love—and in receiving it,
to become a selfless gift of love in return.

Amen.