Wednesday, January 13, 2016


(A poem based on Isaiah 62:1-3)

Trampled, torn, a dirty scarf,
looking more like a rag.
Kicked to the curb, future hope
washing into the storm drain,
forgotten, faded, forlorn--
until you came, picked me up,
cleaned me, healed my broken,
buffeted soul.
A splendid garland you named me,
held as treasure in your tender hands.
No longer cast aside, I adorn
your scarred head, high and lifted up,
shining like the sun.

For Zion’s sake I won’t keep silent,
    and for Jerusalem’s sake I won’t sit still
    until her righteousness shines out like a light,
    and her salvation blazes like a torch.
Nations will see your righteousness,
    all kings your glory.
You will be called by a new name,
    which the Lord’s own mouth will determine.
You will be a splendid garland in the Lord’s hand,
    a royal turban in the palm of God’s hand.

                                                                Isaiah 62:1-3

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