Poetry

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My son, …
If you could know the kneeling hours, the pleading for your life,
If you could catch the falling tears shed for your raging strife.
If you could watch love’s tender hand swab, cleanse and clean the blood,
That flowed from self-inflicted wounds in a protesting flood.
If you could know. If you could know, my son.

My son…
If you could hear the taunts of those who do not understand,
Who fear you, bind you, dread and mock, who’d chase you from this land.
If you could hear their ridicule as mockingly they cry
‘Why pray for him, he’ll never change – more likely, pigs will fly!’
If you could hear, if you could hear, my son.



And later, the reply…

Yes, now I know, I stand before you, healed, redeemed and clean
My Saviour, He has set me free, Jesus the Nazarene.
He’s freed me from the demon host that tormented my soul
These long long years. I stand here now made right and saved and whole.
All praise to Him, He heard your prayer, your never-ending cry.
I’ll tell to all who’ll listen, He made the pigs to fly!


Mark 5:1-20

(Too late for this week's challenge of 'Pigs Might Fly' but a few thoughts on the healing of Legion.)

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