Redeemer

(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