SALVATION

       

THE ANSWER, MY CHILD, IS HE

(My Testimony . . . and the first poem I wrote, one week after giving my life to Christ)

 

My life was lacking purpose.

Each day seemed just the same;

that hollow feeling . . . the emptiness . . .

it was difficult to explain.

Mom and Dad had it together;

they knew exactly where it was at.

But they were older and it fit their lives.

I had not time for that.

 

                            They said “Open your heart to Jesus.

                            He is happiness and peace.

                            You’re searching in all the wrong places.

                            The answer, my child, is He.”

 

Yet there was this nagging feeling

that my answer could be found.

Friends said party, drink, get high ~

good times would being me around.

So taking to heart these words of advice,

I partied the whole night long.

The next morning was a rude awakening,

because the emptiness was still as strong.

 

                            They said “Open your heart to Jesus.

                            He is happiness and peace.

                            You’re searching in all the wrong places.

                            The answer, my child, is He.”

 

Yet there was this nagging feeling

and the answer was near, I knew.

The people at work said “It’s success, my friend.

Money’s the answer for you.”

Well, I strived for a new position

and finally success was mine.

I was making good money and had lots of things,

but emptiness still filled my life.

 

                            They said “Open your heart to Jesus.

                            He is happiness and peace.

                            You’re searching in all the wrong places.

                            The answer, my child, is He.”

 

Yet there was this nagging feeling ~

was the answer as Mom and Dad said?

As a last resort, I turned to the Lord,

and the answer I found was that . . .

 

                            I opened my heart to Jesus, and

                            He is true happiness and peace.

                            I was searching in all the wrong places.

                            The answer for me is He.

 

†††

 

ALL FOR ME

 

With every heartbeat, the pain pronounced,

as gnats, like demons, flew about His head,

blood trickling into His eyes and ears;

salt chafing His skin from the sweat.

 

And the thorns pierced Him ever deeper,

this wicked device called a crown,

an attempt to humiliate and defeat Him,

yet, He uttered not one hateful sound.

 

The soles of His feet became gashed and torn,

splinters buried deep in His flesh,

His shoulders rubbed raw from the weight of the wood,

the vehicle by which He’d meet death.

 

So tired and weak, His legs trembled

and His knees buckled under the strain.

As He fell to the ground, the people just laughed;

how much they enjoyed seeing His pain.

 

With effort He rose slowly to continue on

and came to the place where He’d die.

Quietly, He lay down on the rough wooden cross

as His ankles and wrists were then tied.

 

With eyes tightly closed, He knew the next step;

the weight of the gavel released,

and the nails ripped into His delicate flesh,

bones splaying in His hands and His feet.

 

With a jolt, the cross raised harshly upward,

and Jesus hung naked before ignorant men.

Though they spat and they mocked and they laughed and they jeered . . .

with love He looked down and forgave them.

 

After hours of torment, the time had arrived ~

the moment for Mercy to meet Truth.

Just before giving His Spirit to God,

He whispered, “For you, child.  All for you.”

 

He’d pressed onward in pain; never to give up;

through it all, it was me on His mind.

For even back then He considered me His child;

He loved me and gave me His life.

 

†††

 

GETHSEMANE

 

The darkness of night engulfed Him

while the world so peacefully slept.

All alone He bore such anguish,

His heart breaking as He wept.

 

All alone He faced His future;

He knew well what lay ahead.

That night He would be tortured,

within hours He’d be dead.

 

Gethsemane . . . Gethsemane.

How I wish that I’d been there

to wipe the tears from His eyes,

to softly stroke His hair.

 

Gethsemane . . . Gethsemane.

Oh, I wish I had been there

to tell my Lord I loved Him,

to show Him that I cared,

 

to tightly grasp His trembling hands . . .

and yet what would it mean?

I was the reason for which He’d die.

How could comfort come from me?

 

 

–Cheri Henderson, hendersonct@aol.com

 

 

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