Sin

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If you, O church, could only see
The sin that hides inside of me,
Would you maintain that I am free?
That Jesus is my hope and plea?
Would not “Pariah” be my name?
And would you not seek to defame?
And posit me with damning blame,
Though flesh afflicts us all the same?
For all have fallen short of this,
We all take part in Judas’ kiss
And ev’ry man has gone amiss
In search of sin’s mirage of bliss.

But you, O Lord, do truly see
The sin that hides inside of me,
Yet still you heard this sinner’s plea,
And still you came to make men free.

Matthew 6:13

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Oh let me never set my foot
Into this hellish place again,
This cesspool of the vilest strain,
This fountain of the blackest soot,
For I would sooner face my death
Than dare depart into the deep
Where devils in the darkness sleep
In wait for any sound of breath.
Alas, this place is never far,
For scorching fire doth walk with me,
Subverting any good I see,
Revealing this, my hidden scar,
The fatal wound within my heart
That came when I chose to rebel
And, left unhealed, will lead to hell
This soul who seeks to just depart
To freedom from the curse of sin.
O Jesus, can you save this wretch?
Can you before damnation catch
My soul and make my life begin?
Forgive me for my wicked ways
And rescue from temptation’s snares;
Keep me from loving what impairs
And make me yours for all my days.

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We bar and barricade the doors
In our attempts to gain control
Over the monster of the moors
Whose presence takes a deathly toll.
Among our fellow men we place
A visage of maturity,
And wear a smile upon the face
That none might our true nature see.
And all the while we waste away
As day by day the monster kills.
We fall defeated in the fray,
Forsaken by our fallen wills.
We will forever lose the fight,
For our desires are much too strong.
Unless we fall before the Light,
We soon will sing our final song.
The only answer to the curse
Is in the God-man crucified.
In death was opened heaven’s purse.
His payment poured from pierced side
That we poor sinners could be cleared
From wages that were well deserved.
He saved us from the fate we feared,
And humbly our Creator served.
So do not tarry in this time
And risk eternity in strife,
But heed the reason for this rhyme
And turn to Christ the Lord for life!

The Necessity of Bad News

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In 1741, Jonathan Edwards preached a sermon entitled “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” to a congregation in Enfield, Connecticut. He had preached this sermon previously to his own congregation in Northampton, Massachusetts, where the message was received with little response. But when he preached in Enfield, where men of faith had been praying steadfastly, God moved in the building in almost tangible ways. People learned to fear the Lord, and lives were forever changed. But before the good news of the Gospel could take hold, the people had to be broken by the bad news. And the bad news was very bad.
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Salvation

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O God, I humbly must confess
My love for all unrighteousness.
My love for you, I know, is less
Than my desire for filthiness.
And I, by my own might, cannot
Erase the blemish, ban the blot
Of sin. This wound I cannot clot.
Apart from help, this life will rot.
So come before this heart of dross
That festers underneath the gloss
Makes of this man a total loss.
O God, how I deserve that cross.
I know there is no good in me.
Your son, I could not hope to be,
For by your Word, I better see:
My only hope must come from Thee.
And though I cannot earn your peace,
By grace you do from sin release
My soul, and cause my death to cease.
Your holy blood has washed my fleece.
Depravity cannot repel
The Savior snatching souls from hell.
And though we wear this dying shell,
Our ears will hear the wedding bell.
So let me never now lose sight
Of your great glory, grace, and might,
And let your holy, saving light
Shine through and make me ever bright.

To Worship and to Fight

/ joethewaller / 2 Comments

I feel temptation’s throes around me now.
My heart is being beaten by the brute.
This flesh would see me finished with my vow.
Cry vengeance, God, and cut it at the root.
Too long have I now struggled just to breathe.
Too long have I imagined life is jest.
The holy Sword of God I must unsheathe,
And drive the blade into my very chest.
Cut out the heart of stone, O Lord of hosts,
And bring the dead to life by sacrifice,
For Christ has come to walk among the ghosts.
He paid with his own blood the ransom price.
O resurrected Warrior of light,
Raise me now up to worship and to fight.

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A Prayer to Hear

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I serve a God who speaks-
Who speaks for me to hear.
And though his Word means life and love,
I rarely lend my ear.

Yet still he calls me as his own.
He grants me access ‘fore his throne.
Such love and grace to sinners shown!
Oh help me, Lord, to listen.

The world in wailing wreaks-
Wreaks havoc with its cries.
Though tinged with tones of great delight,
They only offer lies.

For underneath the white-washed skin
The dying soul cries out in sin,
And wonders, could it live again?
Oh help me, Lord, to listen.

I, therefore, need to pray-
To pray to hear his voice,
The whisper in the wilderness,
To make the holy choice.

For Christ has died in my own place
And given me a son’s embrace.
Oh let me look upon his face!
And help me, Lord, to listen!

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Trusting When We Do Not Understand

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Here’s the setting: You’re sitting in a restaurant with your friends enjoying dinner. This is one of those restaurants that offers complimentary ice cream cones after every meal, and the ice cream machine has been getting a steady stream of traffic since you sat down. As you watch, kids all across the building scarf down their food with enthusiasm before turning (with mouths still full of their last bites) to their parents to get permission to go get ice cream. The kids can hardly stay in their chairs, hopping down and running to the ice cream machine as soon as they get the go ahead. You watch as little boys and girls figure out just how high they can get their soft serve to go on their little cones, and you laugh as the once clean faces are now being painted with vanilla. But then you notice one little boy crying.
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