Skip to main content

Well of Grace


We are all born sinners.  None of us are exempt from this debilitating fact.  Dark creatures we are, hiding amongst hardened “rock hearts” and stinging weeds.  Not one of us is good, not by our own stout.  Our legs are weak and our arms are limp with guilt.  In us, ebon souls like cave coal.  We are filthy rags, waiting to be washed clean of blackened wrongs.  Lowly people we are, waiting to be restored.  Purified from foulness?  Yes, we can be cleansed of all this vile clay.  How?  By the grace of God, we can be redeemed! 

God’s grace is like pure water at the bottom of a mossy well.  The refreshing, calm stillness calls, waiting for our wretched hands to pull up “born-again bucket”.  Our feet walk through “lost wildwood”.  We trek, run, crawl, looking for “found meadow”.  Mire and wicked muck cover the “soul path” while we search for everlasting waters.  “Doubting dust” blinds our eyes to the glorious, renewing of the christened cross. 

Grow faith seeds along the trail to hidden, yet seen “well of grace”.  The refreshing, sanctifying savior is softly calling from the well waters.  “Tis here!” He calls.  To “well of grace” make haste, do not take slowly pace.  Take a saving taste!  Dip hands in holy waters.  Wash face clean of old.  Well echoes, “Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, you’re free at last!” 



 
Well of Grace

I come to the well of dewy grace
Violet vines twist and knot
preventing a sweetened,
newborn taste

Rose thorns of folly past
prick and nick,
guilt marks scar
Rags of filth and wicked mire
are my dreadful sire
My aged, sinful hands
are my bolts and templates
What evil coils and lowly bands!

Unworthy, nettlesome weed am I!
I? Come before this gracious well?
Blackened, smudged sinner, wretched
I? Come before holy mist?

Treading through defiled grove
Satan cunningly lurks
“Sinner, so fruitless.
Worthless wormwood maple!
Frost-death peach tree!
Crumbling trespasser,
splintering transgressor,
shamefully dying.”
Bold-face lies! Must be curt!

Come to bucket of snowy gospel
Tear, shear briar of deceit
“I am the way, the truth, and the light.”
Well of grace, commandingly speaks


I, forgiven sinner
humble and meek
Finally, grace and mercy
my drink


Well of grace
My submissive soul
makes haste!
Sublime nectarous taste!


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Pine Heart Roots

  On a Friday afternoon, I packed the car and my mom and I drove down Sea Blue Lane.   Our destination was Pine Prairie, Louisiana.   Wheels rolled down blacktop while music notes rocked and rolled through the Malibu.   We sped through Lafayette and entered “Country Land”.   As I passed by horses, my eyes lit up with little girl joy, as usual.   Cows grazed as clouds speckled their backs.   The bayous were fading behind us as pine trees started to grow in their place.   The scenery was refreshing, renewing our minds with fresh crawfish waters.   We finally arrived at my cousin, Dana’s house and parked upon O’Banion territory.   I needed to strip my bark of “stress needles” and regrow peace around my “pine heart”.       I was feeling distant from my dad.   Year after year, the roughness I once felt on his hand was smoothing.   He is branded in my heart, but I needed that brand to be lit under fire ...

Country Bound

Country Bound I travel down a mellow, yellow sunflower road upon miniscule “wishing” pebbles.   A monument stands tall amiss sprightly wildflowers.   Rustic, red barn, tell me your wisdom, tell me your stories.   A split rail fence is my guide, built by thick, rough hands.   It dances to a patterned rhythm around a charming, pastel blue farmhouse.   I am country bound, my soul to be found. I pass by a field flowing with radiant corn.   Stalks stand tall, presiding over misty pastures.   Golden wheat is nuzzled with sunny rays.   It waltzes with the wind and tangos with blades of grass.   Hearts of farmers beat in rolling hills, growing “love soy seeds”. An apple pie sits on a crackled window sill cooling for attention.   Cinnamon swirls through a two-story house.   Maple beans, sweet greens, and cornbread overflow the Amish-built table.   Greens pop into savoring mouths.   Sugary beans candy-coat t...

Silver Knight

  Little boys and little girls around the world can be heard calling for, "Daddy, father, dad!" I must of uttered dad a hundred times a day. “Dad, can you help me with a math problem?", “Dad, can you fix this and fix that?", “Dad! There's a spider in my room!" Dads' are the heads of the household. They are spiritual leaders and advice givers. They are comforters and protectors of clans throughout different villages. My dad was the king of our Irish clan. He was a good ole' southern gentleman, so he always slipped a "hun” in his statements. He was a wonderful Christian man, always giving glory to God. He was a sound and stable oak, never bent or shaken. Fear? He did not know fear. The only fear that was fashioned in his heart, was the fear of God. My dad stood his manly ground each day, battling earthly forces.  My dad was always a detail and knowledge encyclopedia. Many times he would give me advice on how to save money (I was a...