Covered in Blood

The only way to see our need is to look at the Savior. Take a moment to reflect as you read this old poem of mine. I should get back into writing poetry.

My hands are covered with blood; 
sticky, sickening, red.

I’m dancing the death dance;
terror, gloom, dread.

I’m looking into his face;
gasping, gurgling, dying.

I’m feeling my blood turn cold;
chilly, guilty, accusing.

He’s steadily looking back;
warmth, grace, forgiveness,

He is whispering a prayer;
genuine, earnest, honest:
“Father, forgive her… She knows not what she does.”

I’m looking at my sin;
dark, disgusting, ugly.

I’m seeing it in on his face;
suffocating, crushing, lethal.

I’m seeing my desperate place;
broken, battered, feral.

His eyes are piercing mine;
loving, compassionate, melting.

He is beckoning me higher;
gently, kindly, pleading,

In this cold heart, He’s kindling a fire;
slowly, bigger, brighter.
Though I slay Him yet will He serve me.

My hands are covered with blood;
sticky, sickening, red.

His heart is covering me in love;
gently, kindly, beautifully.

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