Self! The Devil’s Whore 3 Poem by Michael P. Johnson

So deep I’d felt my lover’s knife
So high my dungeon’s wall
Always a whore never a wife
Always at beck and call

Though ravaged, hurt abused inside
Heart torn with awesome pain
Christ claimed me as His virgin bride
And gave me hope again

He stripped me of my filthy gown
In blood He steeped me whole
He gave to me Salvation’s crown
And saved my wretched soul

Saved from destruction, rescued from hell
My eyes now trained above
I’m wise to Satan, the wares he’d sell!
Within the hands of love

He’s intimate with great and small
Their weakness ever wise
Eager seducing God would call
So glad to take them prize

Even God’s house is not without
Not few still bear his name
With pride he clouds their heads with doubt
Infesting hearts with shame

Beware the church those born-again
Is truly Christ your head?
There’s no one safe from Satan’s reign
Man’s flesh is never dead

We need God’s Son, His shield of Light
His armour made for war
I know in Christ we’ll win the fight
For “I” was Satan’s whore