The feet that once sank
deep, deep down
in that slimy, miry bog;
The hands that gripped Yours
so desperately
as You reached for her in the fog;
The body that You lifted,
so gently, from pitiful depths,
has surrendered again
to her towering sins
and hearkened to clamoring flesh.
Her iniquities consume her
as her way begins to slip,
and she veers onto that dire path—
shrugs off Your steadying grip.
The muck and mire of despair
still oozes between her toes,
and the new song that You gave her
is reduced to dingy prose.
Her enemy gloats over her defeat,
confident that her flesh
will sentence her to the pit once more,
despairing unto death.
Till she cries again—Lord, come near!
in her poverty, in her need;
her courage drains, her joy departs,
but You turn and hear her plea.
No sacrifice or offering
that she alone can give
can save her from this sinful bent—
it’s Your grace she needs, to live.
The faithful hand that reaches down
to rescue once again
lovingly lifts and rinses clean
the residue of sin.
Once for all—yes, only once—
Your sacrifice made complete;
yet Your mercies dawn, afresh, anew—
Your forgiveness, on repeat.
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