Deanna worshipping on a rooftop in Chimbote, Peru



what grip we have on things untold, 'hind calloused hearts within,
once supple skin now rigid firm, err cover scars of sin.
The only way to restore life to hearts that pulse in pride,
the precious crimson tide that bled, One laid down Holy life.

the mourning Son whose loss was great, doth grieve for souls to plea,
His Father too did count the cost, then sent Him up to be
alone upon a muddy hill and tree which clung to iron
hold firm the weight of sacrifice the Father kept His eye on.

unloaded of its quarry, the tree now stained in scarlet,
the Life it once held dear, now placed inside white garment,
tightly snug it clung to flesh, both God and man was He,
the shroud was shed as was His blood to save men, set them free.

much later down a journey road, a young man sent to speak,
too his father let him go, to encourage amongst the weak,
lost were they, no hope in sight, bound by man's religion,
Salvation came a flooding spike, obedience had been driven.

he wrote and penned and inked his love, and grew a man to be,
he shared it with the weak and strong, and sought the China Sea.
the Father would not let him go, he wrestled seasons through,
once again aloft aboard, heads back where llamas strew.

turning home again he came with Muslims on his mind,
a gnarled knot 'neath his arm, a shadow passed in time,
a martyrs song would grip his heart, his path he had foreseen,
untold lives are welcomed home, through blood of his owned King.

now His life keeps drawing souls, his words writ with a pen,
their lives entwined together, has me thirsting more of them.
what day I greet them face to face, celebrations ne'er cease,
father, son with mended hearts, embracing in His peace.

The Fathers Son has mended hearts, embracing them in peace!


dad