A thousand little things go unnoticed.
Piles, like dirty dishes, of tiny sins
That softly declare the kind of man I am –
Or the kind that I am not.
There are no soap suds to soak in, No water hot enough to release the stain. No, the stain remains, like a scar – Fading, yes, but never removed.
Goodness will not undo it, A new work merely adds to the offense. This is sin. This is human life. This is death. This is the life that Jesus came to save.
A thousand little things were noticed. Blood, like streams, of divine blood Softly declares the kind of man I am – And the kind that I am no longer.