Precious Mud
Falling, pounding, driving, stabbing, hitting pavement, ground and sod.
Cleansing, washing, sun-baked hardness now turned into precious mud.
Growing, thriving, pushing striving, pods break through the ground once hard.
Take advantage, purpose-driven, stretching towards the heavens above.
Scorching, baking, shriveled seed sprouts beg for mercy, wilt away.
Waiting, wanting, needing moisture just to see another day.
Thickening, heavy, dark, foreboding storm clouds gather overhead.
Grateful, desperate, hopeful, thankful winds that push away the dread.
Flowing, running, flooding goodness, once again the fields are mud.
Thirsting, drinking, soaking, steaming, taking in and storing up.
Purposefully the rain has fallen bringing and sustaining life.
Coming in a time of need, bring an end to pain and strife.
Crying, begging, hanging, sweating, beads of blood run down His face.
Shouting, screaming, please forgive them, take me in their place.
Thick and dark and still foreboding, once again the clouds appear.
Marking, noting, signifying that the end is drawing near.
Looking, searching, toward the heavens, once again His voice rings out
Calling, asking, telling, begging, mercy is his shout.
Buried, wilting, dying, suffering, hangs his head and takes a breath.
Wounded, beaten, crucified, there's nothing left but death.
Flowing, running, seeping from his side, his hands, his brow.
Soaking, staining, sacred raindrops falling heavy on the ground.
Struggling, pushing, hopeful -- sinners find the precious mud.
Drink, renewed, refreshed, forgiven . . . by the power of the blood.
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