Poetry

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I argued that it was a little sin, against the crimes of men
That in the light of darkness, it should not be counted then.
I named my works and measured my failings, and felt I that I was whole,
That for the good I had done, this “little sin” would scarce condemn my soul.
And then I dreamt I was before the Lord, proud I there did stand,
Until he turned and I saw His face, and His outstretched, nail pierced hand.
“Come,” He said, “and let me show you just what that ‘little sin’ cost,”
“Just what it meant for me to redeem a sinner’s soul that’s lost.”
Together we walked to a garden dark; He was prostrate upon the sod.
I bent to hear His broken tones, His pleadings to His God.
For my “little sin”, He begged not once but thrice, upon His knees bent low,
To be spared the anguish of the wrath of God that I will never know.
We came to a hall, where men at their cruelest, the lowest they’ve ever been,
Shouted and railed at the Lord Jesus Christ, the bearer of “little sin”.
Silence met the hardest blow, meekness each mocking lie,
The wrath of man could not provoke the slightest holy cry.
But oh! When darkness hid my eyes, as I stood near the cross of shame
When there he hung and paid my “little sin”, He wailed his father’s name.
Veiled by the inky darkness, He bore that “little sin” of mine,
Bore it till the work was done, then let his soul resign.
I stood, confounded by the awful sight, I could not ever begin,
To tell the horror and sorrow I felt at the thought, of my “little sin”
Weeping, I begged for a second chance to tell Him I was wrong,
It was I who had sinned, not little but great; hell is where I belong.
Then wonder! And rapture! I felt Him lift me, and wipe away my tears.
“It is finished,” He whispered softly in my disbelieving ears.
I had no response but to cling to Him, and thank Him with all within,
I was free from it all, because of Him, the redeemer of “little sin”.

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