Thursday, August 1, 2013


I am getting old and ugly,
but he is beautiful.

I am garrulous and cantankerous,
but he is gentle of heart.

I am weak and silly,
but he is firm and fair.

I am declining,
but he is increasing.

I am into myself,
he is into others and God.

I am a sorry mess,
he became a sorry mess for me.

I am sad and dejected
but he is hope.

To the end of my days,
he will carry me.

I pruned the roses yesterday,
and held some thorny sticks to remove,
some just cut and some old brown ones
from other year.

I held the old one and looked at the big thorns,
and thought that this sort of thing,
which was poking my fingers,
was put on Jesus' head,

and I thought about that he
did it gladly,
so gladly,
for me

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