I admit it. I disobeyed. I ignored Your clear instructions, Lord. And then You murdered me!
You sent my now-limited life from the Garden in shame – spiritually dead, nothing the same, everything changed forever.
How hard I toil for fruit that spoils in a life filled with imperfection! I feel worthless. I question myself at every turn, fearing Your rejection.
Where do I go? How do I live with myself? How do I live without You?
Trying to be good and obey every dot and iota of the law just didn’t do it! Neither did self-hatred nor mutilating remorse. I wanted to make things right, Lord, but I couldn’t, and You wouldn’t let me!
You sent Yourself –
Your Son –
The Perfect One –
Who perfectly suited
Your plan of redemption,
the Fruit of Yourself –
Your Pure Love – given
to exempt me from my own sin.
I’m sorry, Lord! I’m sorry, but
I could not stand
to look on such Whole and Holy Love
as I’d been living.
What could I do but kill Him?
prose poem by Mary Harwell Sayler, © 2017, written on the last days of Lent, the week of Christ's Passion