I enter the court and the judge
stands before me, righteous and
demanding of the same from me,
who knows only wickedness.
I cower before him, wanting to hide
my weakness, my filth, ashamed
to even look at his face, in his eyes,
knowing my sentence too well.
I shudder to think of the years
that must be spent abandoned
in some dark place of torture,
left only with my own stench.
I hear then- more than a whisper,
like a gavel slamming down- the
pronouncement, my sentence;
someone must pay the price.
I wonder astonished when I hear
that my life has been pardoned!
my transgression wiped clean, that
I no longer live with my sentence.
I stand amazed in the presence
of my upright judge, who has paid
the price of my crime with his blood,
pardoned me through his own pain.
I look and he calls to me, longing
for friendship with me, wanting me
like a father estranged from his child,
yearning for me to come home.
I run to him, boldly approaching his
throne, eager to talk and to know him,
hearing his thoughts, sharing them,
trusting his offering of love for me.
Posted simultaneously at Dandelion Digest
©Elizabeth A. Johnson. 2011.