Sunday’s Coming

Standing naked at 4am – my world crashes,
Embarrassed by error and electrocuted with regret,
Undreedemed in many areas . . .
The devil highlights my shame.

Taken to task by the curse my inner man cries hard . . .
My wooden tears splinter on my cheeks
– Hitting the ground as lies.
It may be Friday but Sunday’s coming.

Dark grey skies litter my soul —
The accuser feasts on my weakness.
In contrast, my spirit towers as a cast iron fortress
It cannot be bruised nor tainted by wanton oppression . . .
I said it may be Friday but Sunday’s coming.

Serrated mistakes scratch at my memory —
Breaking the skin of my yesterdays they bleed into my heart.
Deep inside I hear The Word . . .
Wisdom’s voice dances across my understanding —
The battle is mine He says.

The broken record of failure plays in the background —
Tearing off scabs it exposes my iniquity.
In a pincer movement joy pulses from my spirit man —
Cutting off the lies and cursing them from the root.
I marvel at the hope within and stand on the truth . . .
It may be Friday but Sunday’s coming . . . Sunday’s coming.

A Christian poem by:  Scot Crone

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