“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
O what a foretaste of glory divine!”
is the strain that wafts through the air
to rest upon the ears of the man sitting in the chair
spittle drooling over his long white beard
the ages he lived chiseled in skin pale from fear
his thoughts flit back to the scenes of past life
the battles he fought, the people he knifed
etched in his skin are his affiliations
now all saggy, baggy, craggy, castrated
a hand takes hold of his heart
squeezing the blood out
his chest punctured with darts
Is this what his life has come to:
a man once brave, sturdy and young
now at the mercy of the vice tightly clung?
“Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
born of his Spirit, washed in his blood.”
What legacy does he leave?
Are his footsteps the length of a steed?
His life hangs in the balance
there’s a call to repentance
his heart, dog dead tired,
is a gift sent from Heaven.
How strange a gift it is, yes,
as he lays his eyes on Happiness
the thoughts that once so troubled him
flees as before the sun on morning wind.
“This is my story, this is my song,
praising my Savior all the day long;”
is the refrain he prophetic’ly hears
the vice-like grip no longer lingers near
in faith sublime he no longer pines
for Heaven’s approval now on him shines
His tattered skin
may not reveal the markings within
as the Spirit rended and mended,
shaped and moulded as he consented
“Perfect submission, perfect delight,
visions of rapture now burst on my sight;”
He closes his eyes
as the pain subsides
In death’s embrace
he finds solace
until his Saviour
wakes him forever.
The quotations are from Blessed Assurance, a hymn written by Fanny Crosby in 1873.