I’ve survived many demands <br />To see the nails in my hands. <br />The petitions of my enemy <br />Salivate at the taste of the sin in me. <br />I cannot deny I deserve more than the reprimands, <br />The gentle chastises from my Father’s hands. <br />Yea, it should be me strapped to those wooden beams, <br />Poured out, stretched wide, my clothes torn at the seams. <br />With a mouth claiming liberty, I find myself tied down with bands <br />Only to see myself broken at my own hands. <br />Yet the slate of physical and spiritual diseases <br />Is washed clean when I mention the name “Jesus.” <br /> <br />I cower at the frightening treat <br />Of seeing the nails in my feet. <br />I’ve got a list of iniquities Satan loves reading <br />In his pastime, craving the taste of my flesh bleeding. <br />It’s true I follow this body, this rotting piece of meat <br />To the place of death, far away from my Father’s feet. <br />Yea, it should be me pricked by that splintered tree, <br />Reproached, despised, poured out into the wintered sea. <br />With eyes cast upon the path of peace, I dance to sin’s alluring beat, <br />A crooked, gentle way of comfort to my feet. <br />But death grows weak as I get braver <br />Everytime I cry out, shout out, “Savior! ”<br /><br />Tammi Celina Lyons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hands-and-feet-3/
