She’d carry the photo of herself everywhere she went
As if to remind herself of the time she’d spent
When she was young and a beauty;
It could’ve been anyone: you, me,
Or someone of notoriety.
We steal a look in the mirror and wonder:
“Where has the time gone?”
And you look at the young.
“I used to look like them;
I was beautiful and thin:
Could win the men or women.”
So you look at the photo of 25 years past and back again.
Now look at me:
In 25 more, where will I be?
Is there something more to Christianity
Than some doltish naivete?
Than satisfying desires.
I’ve done that, and all I have is this picture of what I used to be.
Maybe . . . maybe . . . just maybe.
No, I’ll wait till I’m ready.
What’s holding you back?
A residual feeling of attack from born agains?
“I don’t want to be like them;”
Or, “God just doesn’t do what I want him to do.”
None of these excuses are particularly new.
There are others wedding science that perhaps sound better,
Penned in a journal or Hallmark letter:
Trivial as conversations about the weather.
Don’t you want substance?
Something that you can’t overspend or can’t afford
Or that leaves you empty or bored.
There is only One, the Lord.
Has anyone ever loved you so, so, so much for being bad
That they gave you EVERYTHING they had–
Their lives and all they contain
And abides with you once you believe in His name.
Or you can believe in the memory of that picture.
Either way, you’ll never be the same.
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