Poetry

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The hand is red, because of blood,
   shed in your behalf.
It could be clean, wiped on your soul;
   just choose the second life.
The hand is right, strong and true,
   as the One who owns it.
It reaches out to save you
   in the form of His Spirit.

In this age of His Grace
   there's still hope for your life.
He's unchanging in His ways,
   bringing good from strife.
He is holy, must soon judge,
   all not of His pleasure.
Be not surprised, nor begrudge,
   the mystery of righteous measure.

The red will be not from blood,
   but from holy indignation.
As He warned, He will judge
   the resistant to salvation.
He must do what is just
   He won't deny Himself.
Man's proud folly will seed the dust,
   not making the Lord his Help.

Either way, the hand is red,
   and it is ever right.
For the humble, no need to dread;
   the hand, to them, is Life.

© 8-29-2012

"What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,
Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,
And plunge us in the flames; or from above
Should intermitted vengeance arm again
His red right hand to plague us?" ~ John Milton,
Paradise Lost (Book II, 170-174)

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