I cannot serve two masters. I serve, but only one,
for if I love some sinfulness, I hate God's only Son.
Could I walk in His sandals? Do I really understand?
Of what would it encompass? Of what would it demand?
Could I put up with some abuse, and could I humbly be,
a whipping board of insults, for all to scoff at me?
Could I withstand a whipping? Tell me, would I know,
the pain down in my open wounds, torn flesh from every blow?
Could I, but bear the privilege - to be a king renowned,
my face stained in bloody streaks from such a thorny crown?
Would I know the cost of love, and God's most precious grace,
or would I simply think of me, and hate the human race?
Could I endure the anguish, as ropes bind hands and feet,
knotted up so tightly that - I'd give in to defeat?
There on my back, could I stare at - a spike set on my skin,
then watch them take a heavy stone, and slam it deep within?
Oh, I'd know what's coming next - I'd clench my other fist.
Could I endure another nail - or would I just resist?
When tortured even further, could pain be so complete,
when to the cross I'm nailed with - another through my feet?
Slowly ropes raise cross and I. The base slides in the hole.
Then in ghastly, horrid pain, would that jerk shake my soul?
And there I'd hang, alone up high - for all to mock and hate.
Could I endure the anguish then? Can I, to that relate?
Could I survive for hours, in pain and endless shame?
Would I ask Gods forgiveness - for those that I could blame?
Could I die for ALL the world - their sinful sacrifice -
and know that few would love me? Would that, for me, suffice?
Would my final miracle call for a heavenly host?
Or would I yield to Father's will and then give up the ghost?
Hate and anger would not end - the sword would pierce my side....
Oh, would I slip away and hide? Which way would I decide?
His sandals are too large to fill. His time, so long ago,
and Heaven - much too far away, while I'm down here below.
But could I wear His sandals - if I was called upon,
and are my trials greater that - I'd gladly put His on?
He demands my little faith. He holds no speck of wrath,
when He's a lamp unto my feet - a light unto my path.
Yes, I wear His sandals - for I've been called upon,
and faithful every morning I – slip them boldly on.
This poem may explain it - but who truly understands?
For every sin that we commit puts nails through Jesus' hands....
We cannot serve two masters. We serve, but only one.
We have to hate all sinfulness, to love God's only Son.
He who is faithful in a very little thing is faithful also in much; and he who is unrighteous in a very little thing is unrighteous also in much.
This poem was a finalist in the January 2009 poetry contest