"Worm" is another
chatter from "Bible Study Chat" - always eager to discuss Bible - and
versions of the Bible. We've spent many hours talking about the goodness of
God. Worm is a poet, a preacher & teacher. David is also a warm and
friendly guy; a great encouragement, and makes me laugh! Meet my friend – ‘da’Worm’ - He shares his
life, and his love for Jesus in story and poetry.
cried unto Thee, and were delivered:
they trusted in Thee, and were not
confounded. But I am a worm, and no
man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people.” Psalms 22:5-6
~ Of Old Men and Newborns
In the early, wee hours
of a warm summer morning, within a room bathed in the ghastly gloom of
darkness, the wispy thin lad of only fifteen years ardently agonized.
Thoroughly terrified and
trembling with fear, he lay sleeplessly inert atop smooth, crisply-ironed
sheets; sheets with which his saintly grandmother, with her strong, able hands
had neatly dressed and prepared the guestroom bed.
The hushed, tediously
repetitious droning of ordinary nighttime noises seemed a thousand times
magnified as the anxious youngster attempted to position his tremulous body as
still as stone. His perked,
ever-attentive ears strained to ascertain the location and identity of the
terrifying crawling, gnawing sounds that drummed incessantly upon his
Convinced that something
cataclysmic and dreadful was destined to occur; his quiescent body silently
shuddered, the quivering limbs fearful to hazard even the slightest of
Minutes passed like hours
as his tormented mind conjured villainous visions of his past; frightful
apparitions of wrongdoing that he knew would serve to entice the assuredness of
God's fearful wrath.
In the days of his early
childhood, his mother and father had been church going Christians; and
concerning spiritual matters: they had endeavored to raise him right. As a small child, he had passed numerous
spiritually inspirational evenings at home with these godly parents. He still yet had fond memories of listening
with awe as his father and visiting church members (and on numerous occasions,
out of town preachers and evangelists) discussed and expounded the precepts
of God's Holy Word.
Had it been only a couple times, or was it perhaps three? Times of conviction and sorrow in which he
had tearfully rushed forward and knelt upon the invitational altar of various
small churches and prayed desperately for God to save his hopelessly lost and
Three he supposed the number to be: three exceedingly sorrowful,
remorsefully repentant trips: each tearful trek transpiring on separate
occasions. Yet, he knew that even the
embarkation of each of these ventures had been in vain, and he realized for a
certainty that he had still yet remained unsaved, hopelessly lost and without
He continued to lie
rigidly still and frighteningly fixed as his increasingly troubled mind darted
aimlessly through the continually growing recollections of his past sinful
misdeeds. Fearful of remaining within
the oppressiveness of the atmosphere pervading the unlighted bedroom any
longer; his heightened senses having rendered him incapable of enduring the
appalling anguish induced by the harrowing, thundering, crawling sounds; he
cautiously slid his lean, sparse body across the undisturbed sheets, until his
tottering, bare feet at last contacted the cool sheathing of linoleum that
covered the bedroom’s old pine sub-flooring.
Barely able to restrain himself from wildly
dashing to the safety of his grandparent's bedroom, he paused only long enough
to climb clumsily into the discarded pair of rumpled, faded, tattered blue
jeans. Then slowly, and ever so
quietly, he exited the abominable bedroom, crossing the spacious darkened
hallway, and stood shamefacedly silent, poised only a few feet from where his
aged grandparents lay sleeping.
After what seemed to him
an excruciatingly lengthy period of time, a disquieting, agonizing interval
expended struggling with the escalating embarrassment that had forced a
deepening red flush across his thin, whisker-less cheeks, he softly called out
for his grandfather.
Waiting only a few
torturous seconds, he repeated this whispery, hushed, yet plaintive call. Repeatedly, he uttered the same mournful
call; and with each ensuing intonation the strength of his voice increased,
while the tremor in tone shrieked higher and higher.
At length, he heard the
faintly audible, muffled, rustling sounds, as his grandfather began to dress in
the darkness of the master bedroom. A
comforting wave of calmness and relief crawled unhurriedly through his frightened
body, then soon dissipated under a rushing flood of self-consciousness and
timidity. Oh how he longed to have
remained in bed, how he wished he had never called out to his grandfather. Reared by a strong, manly father, he already
had learned to despise weakness, although in his heart of hearts he knew that
he himself was as weak as water, and strength and manliness were not at all his
forte. Yet, with his head hanging
limply, bowed bashfully low, and his tear-clouded eyes staring boringly into the
tops of his naked feet, he patiently waited for the turning of the tarnished
brass doorknob leading to his grandfather's bedroom.
Time seems always to
freeze when each singular second counts, and to this unsettled lad, it appeared
that surely time had ceased to move as he stood somewhat reluctantly awaiting
his grandfather’s arrival.
Oh why had he left the
softness of the guestroom bed? Why had
he ever been so foolish as to interrupt his grandfathers much needed rest, so
imprudently, so cowardly, calling for the elderly patriarch? He ruefully regretted his blunder; for never
would he be able to find the proper words to relate the fountainhead of his
dreadful plight; unveil the burdens, those harrowing encumbrances that haunted
his troubled soul; reveal all to his, sometimes austere, aged progenitor. Never would he be able to divulge the nature
of his actual feelings, truthfully disclose the source of the terrifying
torments that tore so relentlessly at his tremulous, sin-blackened soul.
At last, the greaseless hinges of the bedroom door began
sluggishly to creak and grate, as the thick, reddish-brown pine portal inched
slowly opened, and the shadowy shape of his grandfather’s form finally
emerged. Vividly framed within the
engirding of the unclosed doorway, the old man’s frail, diminutive figure stood
nebulously silhouetted against the ambiance of the golden-yellow summer
moonlight as the faithful lunar light-giver cast her brightly gleaming beams
through the uncovered bedroom window, the aggregation of her resplendent,
refracting rays only faintly illuminating the exposed areas of the heretofore
His grandfather was a slender, slightly built, yet surprisingly
powerful man, his body having been badly broken from numerous years of
excessive labors and toil, along with multiple injuries he had sustained;
debilitating injuries, the likes of which most other men might never have
The lad rather reluctantly and quite hesitantly related the
source of his fearful predicament, ardently alluding to the inexplicable terror
of those dreadful crawling, gnawing sounds, perhaps an infestation of rats
within the walls, he mournfully implored, all the while cringing inside for
this obvious display of unchecked weakness.
Yet, he spoke not a word about his fear of an imminent, untimely
death, nor did he relate the tale of the torturous, terrors he had experienced
when confronted with the appalling onslaught of those nefarious, nighttime
apparitions, that unbidden, endless entourage of disquieting spirits poignantly
portraying a mélange of the awful sins committed during his mischievous
As indeed, he surely failed to relate any information at all
concerning those fiercely flickering, fiery flames of hell that seemed to leap
about and lap their terrible, terrifying, tormenting tongues so greedily and
hungrily at the very fringes of his solicitous, unsettled soul.
The tired, rugged, stern
old gentleman patiently listened, then rather carefully and gently comforted
his grandson, lovingly urging him to return to the safety of his hastily
abandoned bed. Softly yet firmly, he
assured his favorite house guest that there could be nothing amiss within the
walls; that there were no rats within the yet uncompleted, old, frame,
farm-style house his own crippled, yet capable hands had skillfully
disturbed young fellow slowly, somewhat hesitantly turned, and as the tender,
sweeping motion from his grandfather's three-fingered hand gently ruffled his
hay-yellow hair, and with his small, tanned feet plodding rather unsteadily
across the faintly illuminated hallway, he returned to the normally comfortable
confines of the awaiting bed.
In helplessness and
hopeless resignation, he compliantly crawled across the smoothed,
tautly-gathered bottom sheet, feeling its coolness against his warm, flushed
flesh, while pulling protectively at the top sheet, snuggling and tucking it
safely beneath his chin. His eyes
stared blankly upwards for several seconds, until momentarily catching sight of
a fleeting shadow, trapped in the net of a dancing moonbeam as it haphazardly
dashed across the darkened room; then both quivering eyelids quickly clinched
Startled, and further
frightened by this chance glimpse of the transient shadow, his mind raced
frantically again to the dreadful fear and apprehension spawned during the
chaotic convergence of his earlier dilemma.
discontenting noises rattled mercilessly on with a resonance much louder than
before; so loud it seemed he could actually feel the tiny pointed toenails as
the illusory rats scratched relentlessly against the hollow bedroom walls.
On this very night he
would die, of that particular fact he seemed quite confident. Actually, of two singular things, he was
quite certain; tonight he would die, and just as surely as that dreadful hand
of death came, it was in the terrible flames of a raging hell that he would
eternally burn. Yes, of these two
things, there absolutely could be no doubt.
My sin, he postulated, my
sin, my sin! Oh God, oh God, my sin!
He had little notion for
what length of time he had thusly lain, for when the phantasm of fear pays a
visit in the dark, wee hours of the night, sending its spectral summons to a
young lad of merely fifteen summers, old father time just seems to slowly crawl
along. Perhaps it was ten minutes, or
perhaps half an hour, or maybe even longer; yet in this undeterminably lengthy
epoch he lay insensible, his frail frame inexplicably immobilized, although
desperately yearning to arise and reawaken his grandfather; for above all
things, he did not wish to enter the burning flames of a fiery hell!
The harried lad did not
remember climbing out of the large cushiony bed upon this second occasion, nor
did he recollect pulling on his trousers and making the short trek across the
dusky hallway that again deposited him before the unopened door to his
grandfather's room. He could only
faintly recall the soft, whimpering cry that agonizingly scratched its way from
his larynx, traveling upward through his dry, hoarse throat and then finally,
pushed itself hurriedly past his stammering, trembling lips, bursting forth and
reverberating into the humid, nighttime air.
“Granddaddy! Granddaddy!” He repeatedly voiced the lamentable, piteous, mournful cry. “Granddaddy! Granddaddy! Oh,
As he stood in the abject
loneliness of the dark, unlighted hallway, his wildly vacillating, uncertain
mind delved deep within its cranial repository, that seldom used sector that
housed the infrequently used portions of his far too limited vocabulary; a
severely limited lexicon he had foolishly stashed tightly away in favor of
football, baseball, girls, and other frivolous, boyish priorities. He sought diligently, desperately searching
for the proper words, the appropriate confessional utterances that his parched,
fear-thickened tongue would soon be required to articulate.
He was not attentive to the rustling sounds
emanating from the other side of the tightly closed bedroom door as his worn
and weary old grandfather for the second time donned his only recently removed
He continued searching,
earnestly searching, and now quite frantically exploring for proper words,
bright, intelligent words to enunciate upon the emergence of the sometimes
gruff and stern grandfather that he loved so dearly.
With his tortured mind
racing unceasingly, the fears, the horrible nagging fears crept furtively from
within his very being, swelling up and passing through the length of his
trembling, convulsing body. My sins, my
sins! My awful, awful sins!
Suddenly the form of his
grandfather appeared squarely in front of him.
His misshapen, bowed body stood weak and quite wearisome, obviously
further fatigued from these episodes of interrupted sleep; being physically
only a shell of the strong, proud man he once had been.
Yet, with a sort of
forced tenderness, his rough, callused hand gently touched the troubled lad
lightly upon his unclothed, slightly shivering, trembly shoulder. Then with a strong, understanding voice he
made query as to what manner of disturbance had further agitated his precious
the frightened lad began to speak, as with half-crying, half-choking, barely
intelligible sounds, he reiterated the earlier accounting of the terrifying
noises emanating from within the farmhouse walls.
Calmly listening, the
old, retired railroad electrician, an old-fashioned country gentleman, the sort
that always removes his hat in the presence of a lady, endured the tearful
teenager's second accounting of the dreadful bedroom rat invasion.
Perhaps out of
frustration, or maybe from countless years of profound wisdom, yet surely out
of the impression that only the sweet Holy Ghost can place in the heart of one
of God's faithful children, the sage old gospel preacher finally pronounced the
much needed words.
His soft gray eyes filled
with kindness as he peered past the implication of the carefully selected
phrases the frightened youth had hurriedly garbled, as through a truly
discerning, sacred sagacity, he looked searchingly on, delving knowingly into
the very depths of his grandson's troubled soul.
"Son, you've been
saved, and you know Jesus will protect you from all harm,” he thoughtfully
Granddaddy!" the lad practically screamed out his admission, as enormous
rivulets of streaming, stinging saline tears burst from his eyes, before
ripping wide gullies down his reddened, blistering cheeks. "I'm not saved Granddaddy! I’m not saved! I’ve never been saved at all!
Oh Granddaddy, Granddaddy, I'm not saved!"
This once proud, athletically endowed old man, having been for
the second time unceremoniously aroused from his much-needed rest in the
darkness of the early summer morning, standing stooped shouldered and wearied,
his tired, bare feet planted resolutely upon the worn linoleum floor, knew
exactly what to do.
Switching on the overhead light in an area known to this old
couple only as the middle room, (a term engendered, one might suppose, for
lack of any better designation); he then picked up his aged, well-worn,
black-backed Bible. Then with that good
old gospel book in one hand, and clutching his Holy Ghost convicted,
tempestuously weeping grandson with the other, he patiently plodded towards the
living room divan.
his back bowed beneath the softly shimmering rays from the living room lamp,
the awkwardness of the old man’s missing fingers proved no difficulty for him
as he deftly turned the tissue thin pages until the blessed book stood opened
at the Gospel According to Saint John.
Then with the lad’s recently aroused grandmother prayerfully postured
across the room, her toil-tired, aged body resting uncomfortably upon her
humbly bent knees as she offered supplications and intercessory petitions for
her unsaved grandson, in the kindest, sweetest voice that ere fell upon the
hearing of a pitiful lost and dying sinner, with his erratic, asthmatic
breathing shallow and strained, the concerned grandfather carefully began to
From the third chapter,
verse sixteen, he read. “For God so
loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth
in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
With tenderness seldom seen in the gender, male, he quite
cautiously questioned the lad to assure he clearly understood the meaning of the
words penned in this wonderful, well-known verse of scripture. Then with patient, practiced fingers, he
quickly turned backward two pages to the first chapter of that same Gospel of
Speaking in a strong, clear voice, its timbre both calm and sweetly
serene, the kind old country gentleman carefully read verses eleven and twelve.
“He came unto his own, and his own
received him not. But as many as
received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them
that believe on his name.”
"Do you believe on
the Lord Jesus Christ son?"
The lad slowly nodded his
head in acquiescence, his red, sorrowful eyes still gushing with great goblets
of bitter tears.
Yet, the old man did not
stop there, for he had bent his knees in the old sawdust trails in camp-meeting
revivals and brush-arbors; knelt with drunks, prostitutes, and a menagerie of
other social outcasts, and he knew something about the real salvation. Yes, he knew something about the sort of
salvation that sticks, the kind that gets down deep, plowing into the darkened
pits of the blackened, sin-sickened soul; the kind that brings sweet release
and comfort; producing a joy unspeakable.
A simple nodding of the head would never
suffice for a discerning, old-fashioned gospel preacher that would just as soon
lick a person as to spit if it would get him to Jesus. Those precious, remaining fingers, fatigued
and haggard from a past hard-pressed, deftly turned the fragile pages of the
blessed book again, this time alighting in the apostle John's fifth chapter,
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my word, and
believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into
condemnation; but is passed from death unto life.”
Lord Jesus talking son; that's the Blessed Saviour talking, and He’s talking to
Do you really
understand how much God loves you, and that He sent His own precious Son to die
on the cross for you?"
The stream of tears begin
to subside somewhat for the lad, as this old man he loved so very truly
continued to leaf through the frayed pages of his faded black-backed, well-worn
Bible. He had finished with his
readings of the carefully selected passages recorded in the Gospel of
John. Now he would embark upon a
journey through the very marrow of the soul-winner’s message; cautiously
guiding his favorite grandson down the dustiest, roughest, rockiest, most
remarkable road any sorrowful sinner's two feet ever had the privilege,
spiritually to tread.
As the blessed book fell
opened to the apostle Paul's epistle to the Romans, the old man was clearly
within the bounds of his most treasured territory now. Why, he must have cut his teeth on this
toe-headed lad had spent many a slow, sultry summer evening seated upon the old
couple’s banister-enclosed, wooden-planked, covered front porch listening to
the sweet melodious sounds of his Grandma's crackling voice. The surrounding air seemed filled with glorious
gladness as that dear, white-haired, saintly old soul would hum and sing the
kind of old-fashioned gospel hymns that would stand up the hair on the back of
any listener’s neck. As she softly
lifted her sometimes off-tune, untrained voice in praise to her Lord, the
gently creaking, rickety old wooden rocking chair seemed to keep perfect time
to those sweetly sang, soul-stirring songs of Zion.
Yes sir, there she would sit with her old worn-out Bible lying
opened across her lap; a Bible that she must have read through from cover to
cover more times than the lad had hairs upon his head. With the day's chores all having been
completed, she had nothing left to do but spend a couple hours reading God's
wonderful Word and singing songs of praise to her blessed Saviour. Then afterwards, as darkness would overtake
the setting sun, she would retire to the quietness and seclusion of the back
bedroom. Knelling those poor, pitiful,
old worn out knees against the hardness of the pine-planked floor, she would
spend a while just talking to her sweet Jesus - the Saviour of her own sainted
"It's Romans chapter three, verse
twenty-three" the old man said, "Look at the words with me as I
read if you would son."
“For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.”
Yes sir, he was traveling
along that old Roman road all right; and brother, you can believe that he had
been up and down that road it seemed to him a thousand times or more. Yes sir, this old man really did know
something! Because, if you lay hold to
a Holy Ghost drawn sinner; one with the power of conviction oozing out of every
single pore; and then you go to dragging him headlong down that rough old dusty
Roman road… Well, more likely than not,
God is just liable to place another lost lamb into that glorious heavenly fold;
enter one more name into that precious Lamb’s book of life.
son, notice what this verse of Scripture says?"
He had turned his Bible
to the sixth chapter of Romans now, and the poor old man's breathing was
getting shallower by the second. He
certainly had no business being up at this late of an hour; he was not a
healthy man. However, there was a
glimmer of youth flashing in those soft, wonderfully-gray eyes, and if someone
had chance scattered some sawdust about that living room floor, and perhaps
placed an old, rough, oak-board mourner’s bench amongst them, the old man well
might have peeled away forty years from his three score and ten. This was his stalking ground, bowed down on
his knees in the wee morning hours with nothing but a repentant, sorrowful
sinner, the blessed holy book, and the sweet, convicting power of the Holy
Spirit of God.
His slender, slightly
bent finger rested shakily just below the twenty-third verse, as he carefully
read: “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life
through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
The old man's voice gradually tailed off as he slowly and softly
repeated the words penned in that often-used passage found in the sixth chapter
of the apostle Paul's Roman epistle.
Something was taking place within the innermost part of troubled lad
now. Of a certainty, he had heard these
Scriptures quoted on numerous occasions in times past. Why, he even knew each of them by heart, having
committed them to memory long years before.
Indeed, it had not been that many years past since he himself had used
them in witnessing to one of his neighborhood playmates. Afterwards, he had taken him along with him
to attend a Sunday night church service and little Billy had received Jesus as
his Saviour - actually gotten saved.
Yet, on this muggy, momentous summer morning, something quite
different, something awesome and new stirred deep within the lad’s heart. He did not know what it was, but he knew it
was novel, something distinctly fresh and strangely powerful. And whatever this thing might be, it seemed
to be welling up from within, charging into his parched throat and very nearly
choking him to death.
The youth's worn and weary grandfather's
heavenly guided fingers turned a few more pages then paused quietly, allowing
the sacred silence of the sweetest summer night in his trembling grandson's
life to sort of permeate the early morning air. "Son are you sorry for your sins?"
His firm, steady,
inquiring voice shattered the momentary silence, as he gazed deep into the young
Granddaddy" the tearful child replied.”
like to receive Jesus into your heart son?" The old man calmly and assuredly continued
to question his grandson.
Granddaddy" confessed the broken-hearted lad, his voice still weak and
here's what God's Word says about that son" the sainted old man
confidently assured the attentive lad, as he turned the pages of his Holy Bible
further along, moving deeper into Paul’s epistle to the Romans.
Then those experienced,
soft, sure eyes bent toward the two verses of Scripture that would cast off the
blindness forever from his grandson’s own spiritually darkened eyes. The cherished passage that would forever
loosen that baffling blindness that had engulfed the lad’s spiritual eyes (those
eyes of understanding which open into the very heart of every man and woman,
and every boy and girl).
The kindly old gentleman
who always referred to his wife as the madam, never swore or uttered any
unacceptable expletives or curse words, his slender body always producing a
slight bow of acquiescence whenever making the acquaintance of a lady,
(invariably with his left hand firmly clutching his recently removed,
light-brown felt hat close by his side), slowly, quite distinctly read the
glorious words penned in those two life-transforming verses. He read them in the hearing of a poor lost
sinner boy who believed that he had not one hope in the whole wide world. He read them in the gradually cooling,
early, wee hours of a long and tiresome morning, a life-changing morning
following a warm, turbulent, troublesome summer night.
“That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and
shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt
be saved. For with the heart man
believeth unto righteous; and with the mouth confession is made unto
After the old man finished reading, or perhaps quoting from
memory, those gracious words recorded in verses nine and ten in the tenth
chapter of the apostle Paul’s epistle to the Romans, friends, something truly
extraordinary happened. The Spirit of
God took up where the old preacher-man, railroader, and grandfather left
off. The pitiful, disconsolate, wayward
youth suddenly was sorry for what his own, personal sin had done to Jesus. Terribly sorry that he in his rebellion and
unbelief had made the precious Saviour to suffer upon that cruel cross of
God, in His grace and mercy, sent the rueful
youth the measure of faith that in times past, he never had been able to
muster; and He included a full dose of regenerative repentance as well. The lad believed God’s Word and he received
the crucified and risen Jesus as his Lord and Saviour forever. Yes, Satan lost him one on the old Roman
road that night, and the Lord Jesus placed another jewel in an old road-weary
The old man placed his
still muscular, assuring arm around his prize grandson's frail shoulders, while
both, still down on their knees before the living room divan, thoughtfully and
earnestly thanked God for the lad's salvation.
When they arose, the old man half-hugged his grandson; something the lad
could not remember the rough old railroader ever having done before.
For several minutes, the old gentleman’s
joyously shouting, weeping wife heartily hugged her little grandson, while her
rejoicing lips continuously praised God for his love, and abundant grace and
mercy. At length she departed,
tediously making her way towards the sparsely lighted hallway, at last,
disappearing amid the darkness of the bedroom.
As the old man and the lad walked towards that same hallway, the dear
old saint of God carefully placed his Bible atop the shift-robe where it always
laid, then he and the youth exchanged good-nights, with each retiring to their respective
As the newest child
born into the family of God lay his head against the stiffness of the starched,
carefully ironed pillowcase, the delightful redolence of the fresh-air-dried
material overpowering all of the other aromas assaulting his slightly flaring
nostrils, the perfect peace that passeth all understanding filled his sweetly
solaced, spiritually satisfied soul.
He thought of God’s love, mercy and grace, of Jesus the righteous, faithful
Saviour, the joys of salvation, and oh yes, he thought of his dear, wonderful,
was not possible that the newborn lad could ever have known that in little more
time than a year and a half he would be called upon to help bear the coffin
enshrouding his precious Granddaddy's used-up and worn-out body.
Yes, this still youthful, inexperienced lad
would be required to assist in carrying the last remains of his most beloved
grandparent, the dear old saint that had led him to a saving knowledge of the
Lord Jesus Christ, across a blustery, cold cemetery to a freshly scooped
was there on a bitter frigid winter's day that he would stand by the graveside,
his tearless eyes scrupulously watching as the undertaker solemnly lowered that
simple, unadorned coffin, interring the worn, feeble body of his beloved
granddaddy to the encompassing coldness of the frozen tundra.
Do you reckon that
the saints in glory burst out in my old Grandma's favorite hymn, "Bringing
in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicing, bringing in
the sheaves" the night my dear old Granddaddy led me to know Jesus as my
~~ At The Cross ~~12>
Alas! and did my Savior bleed
And did my Sovereign die?
Would He devote that sacred head
For sinners such as I?
[originally, For such a worm as I?]
At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the
And the burden of my heart rolled away,
It was there by faith I received my sight,
And now I am happy all the day!
Thy body slain, sweet Jesus, Thine,
And bathed in its own blood;
While all exposed to wrath divine,
The glorious Sufferer stood.
Was it for crimes that I had done
He groaned upon the tree?
Amazing pity! grace unknown!
And love beyond degree!
Well might the sun in darkness hide
And shut his glories in,
When Christ, the mighty Maker died,
For man the creature’s sin.
Thus might I hide my blushing face
While His dear cross appears,
Dissolve my heart in thankfulness,
And melt my eyes to tears.
of grief can ne’er repay
The debt of love I owe:
Here, Lord, I give my self away
’Tis all that I can do.
More Poetry by d'Worm
"A Little Hope"
~ Jenny ~
"Of Simpler Times"
"The Master Plan"