nudge doubt
to center stage.
Sin catapults
like a wily court jester
into the spotlight,
somersaulting
in dizzying circles.
Like gods,
we were formed
as self-portraits
in flesh,
but we reached too high
incurring the fatal flaw -
a defacing tattoo.
Our inheritance,
a world out of kilter.
The very Son -
a natural God -
did not reach
for high status
but assumed the flaw,
had it imprinted on His flesh
where it festered
and smoldered
until He was tossed
on Death's pyre...
for us.
For all of us.
Creator God,
dressed in man-skin,
wooed us;
risked the ravages
of sin;
stripped off royal robes
and knelt in the muck
and filth
we wallow in.
He kneels there now,
body bruised,
welts rising and oozing
on His back,
bloody holes encircling
His forehead -
a scarlet crown.
Look in His eyes
as He smiles up,
hopefully,
awaiting your response.
Beautiful
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