At birth we're given a book.

It's pages are blank and clean.

We write upon it,

Page by page,

Though it may go unseen.

We ourselves hold the pen

And write upon the lines.

Yet, still, every now and then,

We can't help but sometimes spill

A little ink on the corner,

A bit of water wrinkling the pages,

Against our will;

For we aren't perfect.

But there is One,

A God above,

Who is perfect;

He has already done

Everything for us.

He sewed the book together

So tenderly;

Manufactured one just for me.

We try to scrub the stains off

With good works, or bubbly soap.

But the ugly scars from spills,

The many mistakes we've made,

Simply won't wash away.

Yet there's a remedy,

A solution to it all.

Two-thousand years ago,

A Man stretched out his arms;

He bled, and died

But not for long.

Three days later he rose up,

Walked again, talked again.

Now He's back in heaven above

Yet He's always here, oh so near.

Only his crimson blood

Can scrub away those ugly stains

Taking over our books.

Let Him into your heart,

He wants to clean your book;

He wants to give you a fresh start,

And replace the yellowed pages with love.

• • • • •

• Date written: March 13, 2017 • Word Count: 212 • Line Count: 43 • Stanza Count: 1 •