Hands And Feet Poem by Terry Williamson

I’ve survived many demands
To see the nails in my hands.
The petitions of my enemy
Salivate at the taste of the sin in me.
I cannot deny I deserve more than the reprimands,
The gentle chastises from my Father’s hands.
Yea, it should be me strapped to those wooden beams,
Poured out, stretched wide, my clothes torn at the seams.
With a mouth claiming liberty, I find myself tied down with bands
Only to see myself broken at my own hands.
Yet the slate of physical and spiritual diseases
Is washed clean when I mention the name “Jesus.”

I cower at the frightening treat
Of seeing the nails in my feet.
I’ve got a list of iniquities Satan loves reading
In his pastime, craving the taste of my flesh bleeding.
It’s true I follow this body, this rotting piece of meat
To the place of death, far away from my Father’s feet.
Yea, it should be me pricked by that splintered tree,
Reproached, despised, poured out into the wintered sea.
With eyes cast upon the path of peace, I dance to sin’s alluring beat,
A crooked, gentle way of comfort to my feet.
But death grows weak as I get braver
Everytime I cry out, shout out, “Savior! ”