I have no illusions of who I am.
Where I stand is the only thing I stand
upon-at the foot of a tree, a Lamb
dangling from it, with eyes that see me-and-
See right through me. Right down to my stain-
my guilt-the reason He is exalted there
hanging, naked, like He is wearing my shame-
right there for all the world to gasp-and stare.
Some "joy set before Him" is all I can think
as I set myself before Him...and wish
upon the One who made the stars...and blink
teardrops-mine, mingling with blood-His: swoosh
as in Nike, and the robe that I have won
casting my sin, my cares, my lot upon the Son.
[In honor of Good Friday...a repost of my Good Friday sonnet.]