3.24.2010

Redeemed

I closed my eyes and the picture came
It came unasked for, almost unnoticed
It came and
I thought I saw a massive lump
A bubbling, frothing hideousness
Gurgling its black disgusting brew
Sending forth vile fumes of greenish tint
And even as I watched,
It boiled again
And moved
And then I saw a helpless boy
Not quite a child but not a man
He stood there, unsure,
Looking from right to left
And to his other side there was
Another mass, except here pure
A shining white, so unblemished
It hurt my fallen eyes with beauty
It seemed it was white, but 'round it
Flowed a river of crimson blood
That did not stain the white, but rather
Lifted it higher and kept it so pure
Yet to the boy, the view was distorted
To him the view was sadly switched
The hideous, bubbling green-black mass
To him was rainbow colored, and called
Alluringly, and promised pleasure
The pure white, beauteous tower
To him was stained with yellow, tinted
As the pages of an ancient book, and croaked
A call of boring duty, and crumbled pitifully
And he scorned the pure and embraced the gross
Plunged headlong into the foul pile
And there he happily spent awhile
Not realizing the filth that clung to him
To his deceived eyes it was contentedness that covered him
But suddenly, his eyes were changed
Opened, then, and he saw his sad plight
He was now a man, and thought himself ruined
And he wept as he sat hopelessly in the mass of filth
But a clear wind penetrated his foul world
It flowed through his being and he remembered
He remembered the stained and yellow heap of his boyhood
And through his opened eyes he saw it in its reality
And thus the wind grew stronger and pushed him to his feet
And he doubtfully stood, for he thought
That no one so filthy and ragged as he could be in that holy place
But as he prepared to step from the pile of empty revelry
He found it had chained him, and he could not get out
And he cried out for help and it was then
He perceived a hand stretched out to his aid
A shining pure hand, and he loathed to soil it with his own
And even as he withdrew, the hand grasped him with a gentle strength
And pulled him free from his putrid prison
But he looked on the figure whom the hand belonged to with dismay,
For it was as pure and white as the tower had been
And he knew he was revoltingly begrimed, and could not go there
But the figure had never let go of his hand, and it led him now
To the crimson river flowing 'round the tower
And there he was removed of his loathsome garments
And those were washed in the river to the same shining white
And he himself was bathed in the river, and came out clean
Cleaner than he could ever imagine
And the figure that had freed him and washed him
Now embraced him and called him His own
And the man fell to his knees with joy
And praised the One who saved him
And was a child of God
Evermore
And I rejoiced with him
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