Here they stand, washed and clean
On the lawn, in the yard,
bold faced front,
And if you ask, you’ll hear them say:
Jesus, only way.
As infant babes, they made a stand,
all was grand.
In that way, they grew to know
a man, a savior,
and the world, a show.
So him they claimed as right and true,
but if you knew…
In their hearts they doubt the promise -
like the psalmist.
If they sin, their worries sway.
Will he forgive?
Or send away?
Does one trespass weight the more
and blacken hearts to the core?
So deep within they hold the bones
to front a mask,
to shield the moans.
This in mind, they pray and plead
only potent, godly deed.
And so go on, empty, broken sepulcher
living what they wish they were.
Spiting words to say and deeds to do,
still they stumble,
faults they eschew .
To their knees they come,
Savior and Lord,
But have faults won?
Heart so willing for His gain,
but flesh so weak, causing pain.
How can it be that perfect God
Should love a man?
Making fine a packed dirt clod
I glory in that this love, this creed
Depends not on perfection
But a growing seed.
Persisting on, watered, starved
Into the ground, it’s slowly carved.
And as it carves a hard won place
To the sun,
It lifts its face.
And even when the drought does come
The roots still cling
Though watered only some
The tenuous grasp is enough to hold
And reap the treasure of life worth gold.