I know you’re not some sick
And twisted despot high atop
A throne of pride and whimsicalities.
I know you’re good; you’re love.
But how then, one may ask,
Could I give thanks when God
Has stripped me bare
Of all I once held dear
And has demolished
My steel-clad façade of arrogance
And left me naked in life’s festering pit
Of hopeless, helpless loneliness?
It’s easy. It was for my good!
Can it be said that God is love
If he refuses to remove my leg
Despite gangrene’s ascent
Which surely takes my life
If my ability to walk is not surrendered?
God would hate me not to take it!
What’s a leg compared to life?
I’d give up both my legs to live.
I know my God’s the greatest, wisest, kindest
Surgeon man’s dead heart could ever find.
Would you not yield a cold, dead corpse
To Jesus’ gentle knife if surgery’s end
Resulted in eternal, joy filled-life?
Would you so dare to take the plunge
Yourself and let his knife
Cut open wide your heart?
No surgery’s without pain. Likewise,
No life abiding comes before a funeral.
Yet death’s cruel sting
Is swallowed up in victory.
© 2011 Eric Evans