Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Blood-Stained Robe
He sits, straight and tall in the saddle, riding straight ahead;
nothing impedes Him.
His horse is white;
His robe was white.
Now it is crimson:
drenched,
dripping His life from its hem.
And I?
My robe is white,
pure white,
spotless.
Nothing stains; Nothing mars.
It should have been the other way 'round:
my blood staining my own robe;
His pure white, glistening white.
He chose it so.
09.25.09
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