The picture of grace

This week I remembered a poem that I had memorised from a dusty, hardcover poetry text-book that I know is stuffed in a cupboard somewhere. In what seems to be from a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away: the 1990s.


Read it as a sinner having a conversation with Christ (Love in the poem).


Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back 

                              Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack 

                             From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

                             If I lacked any thing.


A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

                             Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

                             I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

                             Who made the eyes but I?


Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame

                             Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

                             My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:

                             So I did sit and eat.

14 thoughts on “The picture of grace”

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