A Thousand Little Things

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.