the heinousness of my sin,
my iniquity that caused You to be
‘made a curse,’
the evil that excites the severity of divine wrath.
Show me the enormity of my guilt by
the crown of thorns,
the pierced hands and feet,
the bruised body,
the dying cries.
Your blood is the blood of incarnate God,
its worth infinite, its value beyond all thought.
Infinite must be the evil and guilt
that demands such a price.
Sin is my condition, my monster, my foe, my viper,
born in my birth,
alive in my life,
strong in my character,
dominating my faculties
following me as a shadow,
intermingling with my every thought,
my chain that holds me captive in the empire of my soul.
Sinner that I am, why should the sun give me light,
the air supply breath,
the earth bear my treat,
its fruit nourish me,
its creatures serve my ends?
Yet, Your compassion yearns over me,
Your heart hastens to my rescue,
Your love endured my curse,
Your mercy bore my deserved stripes.
Let me walk humbly in the lowest depths of humility,
bathed in Your blood
tender of conscience,
triumphing gloriously as an heir of salvation. —Arthur Bennett