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Poem on GRACE   by Beth Moore

I took my seat on Sunday on my favorite pew,
With a perfect view.
I could see the Robinsons. they're on the rocks, it's true.
The Jones' were there, their boy drinks. The Smiths, they just got sued.
And there was old man Worthington, more money than the bank.
But, I watched very carefully, he never fills the plate.
The organist filled up her pipes. We stood to sing a hymn.
I nudged a friend beside me, Look what the cat dragged in.
How dare he darken sacred doors, some nerve to walk in here.
My nose rose up to greet him, made sure he saw me sneer.
The perfect conversation piece, he wasn't much that day.
We only stopped long enough to bless the food and pray.
That night, I crawled into bed; I tossed and turned till late.
Must be something that I ate. I fell into a restless sleep.
And had a dream so real.
I stood before a mansion in a crimson field.
I reached my hand to knock on a door shaped like a cross.
My eyes fell on a message there embossed.
This is a house that grace built. You are welcome here.
You'll find no condemnation, enter without fear.
The door opened before me, I found myself inside.
It felt so unfamiliar; I found no place to hide.
Suddenly before me, were faces that I knew.
The Robinsons, the Smiths, the Jones' - just to name a few.
And, there was old man Worthington, passing round a plate.
Filled with appetizers many took and ate.
A gentle hand slipped into mine, He gave me quite a fright.
It was that man the cat dragged in, but no cat was found in sight.
So glad you graced our sacred door, He said, feel quite at home.
Then all rose up to greet me, if only I had known.
Though He looked a little different, No doubt it was that man.
But, when He put His arm around me, I saw nail scars in His hand.
 

When we persecute those who are His, we persecute Him.