Cut to the Heart

Ah, the drunken bravado;

Drunk, and pride darkened mind.

Filled with strength,

And overflowing!

Either bolstered by

Drink, or his pride.

He spits in the face of fear.

And all his friends greatly cheer.

“I am not afraid of death or hell.

For all my friends are there!”
Will you come apart,

And reason with me?

Will you put down

Your weapons of pride?

What you have spoken

Need not be recalled.

But let us speak of

The nature of dying.

What is sin?

Have you thought of the din,

That reaches the ears of God?

You perceive yourself slighted,

Freedom taken away.

I propose that,

That’s really quite odd.

Were you there in the place,

Where his loving embrace

Was so full of Life,

Tender and sweet?

Do you know what it’s like

When your best of intent

Is so callously

Thrown at your feet?

Have you purposed great good,

Then perceived that what should

Be received with great joy,

Is rejected?

Your love sent them best,

With great hopes of sweet rest.

Still, they spit in your face,


“Bravado, bravado,

Bravado!”  They yell.

As if there is something to gain.

But dear friend, when you die,

When death closes your eyes,

In death you forever remain.

The one who is chiefly injured,

Is not the freedom of man.

My friend.

The one who is cut to the heart,

Is the glorious Son of Man.

By His Grace


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