A putrid, fungal lesion,
A skin-consuming sore,
A cancer of the reason,
Like biologic war,
To spread to every region,
From one contagious spore.
Condemned to grim existence,
To live in banished state.
Uncleanness in persistence,
A leprous reprobate,
Thus damned to keep his distance,
No fellowship partake.
But while outside the garden,
The Priest-Physician came.
My heart I could not harden,
Against that healing reign.
My sin-contagion pardoned,
The antidote acclaimed.
How good to make distinction,
To judge the whole from maimed,
The swelling leaven lengthened,
In quarantine contained,
In hope to make extinction,
Of hell’s infectious flame.
There is no toleration,
For what the Father quells.
Disease and desecration,
Forever burn in hell.
But Christ redeemed our station,
The Hope to make us well.
Sermon Poems 