Poetry

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There are two tired toddlers
I’m bouncing on my knee.
Little hands smudge my glasses,
So now it’s hard to see.
All this Grandma stuff is far
From what it’s thought to be.
Honestly, sometimes I think
They’ll be the death of me.

My weary eyes are closing
And I begin to drift,
‘Till dream and reality
Are mended in the rift.
Vaguely appears a figure-
Man hanging from a tree,
"Love, for atonement of sins,
Demands the death of me."

Suddenly I awaken
Glad to find both asleep,
Not wanting to distress them
If they should see me weep.
Heart filled to overflowing
Lord, now at last I see,
Gratitude for Your great gift
Will mean the death of me.

For, by laying down my will,
And taking up Your own,
Sin and death will meet defeat
Before Your Holy throne.
Restored now by Your Spirit
Whose breath has set me free,
I bow before the Savior
Who was the death of me.

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