Rider on a White Horse

He sits, straight and tall in the saddle; riding straight ahead with nothing able to block Him. His horse is white; His robe was white. Now it is crimson with His own blood; saturated, drenched, dripping with His life. And I? My robe is white, pure white. Not a single drop of blood stains my robe. It should have been the other way 'round: my blood staining my own robe; His pure white, glistening white. But it is the way it is, thanks be to Him! 09/25/09