Sunday, August 9, 2009

"At The End Of Twelve Years"

I've got to get to him before long
How to move through this throng?
If I don't hurry, he'll soon be gone

I shouldn't be here; they'll know!
I'll just turn around and head home,
but there's nothing there. I'm so alone

I've asked for help from docs, priests, even the gov'ment
I spent all I had, down to my last hard-earned cent
No, I've got to touch him, even just his garment

I turn and I push; they won't let me through
Through muck and mud and probably drool
Down on my knees, I crawl like a fool

I'm spotted. "Unclean!" someone yells really loud
I twist and I punch, no longer too proud
I kick and I claw as I burst through the crowd

Reaching forward, I brush just the tip
And down I go, a nasty bad trip
My rags, already torn, suffer a mighty rip

The crowd pushes me down into the dirt
I'm lower than low, lost my last worth
But he has stopped, suddenly alert

"Who has touched me? I felt virtue!!"
He turned, he saw, he said, "Oh it's you!"
He knelt on the ground. "Daughter, thy faith is true!"

I stood, quivering and shaking the dust from my hand
I'm healed, I'm free, most blessed in the land!
I met Him: Jesus, the God-with-us man!

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