The Way

Ten thousand times ten thousand wheatlike weeds,

prophesying each night of mighty deeds,

bending ears and turning hearts astray.

Each night they say,

each night they say,

“The heart of man is good,

so come and pay your way!”

And listening to their voices,

young I did make their choices,

and warped and wasted precious youth away.

’til broken, bruised, lay I,

dirty, used, lay I,

in the dust and rotted dead of ages past.

Then came a gentle man,

with patient, giving hand,

who poured out blood in payment for my ills.

“Come see what I have done!”

he says,

“Life like the rising sun!”

he says,

“Come follow me and you can be this too!”

“How can I go,”

I said,

“I’m nothing left,”

I said,

“My pockets holed and Heaven’s gold too dear to pray.”

“I’ve paid the way,”

he says,

“I Am the way,”

he says,

“Abide in me and I will see you to my home.”

So rose me up I did,

as Jesus Christ does bid,

to follow warped and wretched ways no more.

And now I walk,

I do,

each stumbling step like glue,

it’s true,

yet have his hand that holds when nothing will.

And now I say to you,

rise up and walk this too,

and leave those worthless weeds to rot alone.

(This poem is a response to “False Prophet” by Blair King. Find her poem at:


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