by Vickie G. Adkins
Tuesday, September 11, 2001
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I watched the old barn start to fade, from years of wind and rain.
I thought that I would fix it up, make it look new again.
I got a brush and some bright red stain, I thought, "this won't take long."
But as the sun began to set, I realized I'd been wrong.
It had taken all my efforts, and now the day was almost past.
But I just kept covering that old wood, and by dark, I'd finished at last.
As I stepped back, and admired the view, I was proud of all I'd done.
I had tackled this old run down barn, and it seemed at last, I'd won.
I was pleased with my accomplishment, it should have taken days.
I'd worked real hard, all by myself. I could use a little praise.
But as time began to take its toil, I had to wonder why I'd even began.
A job so hard, a dirty old barn -- that would have to be painted again.
As I slowly walked the path back home, the lights were already dim.
I quietly opened the door, but heard, "Hey dad, come tuck me in."
My son had waited all day long, not included in my plans.
So anxious was I to see him, I forgot to wash my hands.
I hurried to sit down by his bed, to hold him and to pray.
I don't think I was quite prepared for what he had to say.
He took my red stained hands in his, and slowly examined each one.
And said, "Dad, tell me that story again, about God's only Son."
As I left his room that night, I felt I'd accomplished much more.
Not by painting that old, run down barn, but by walking through his door.
And as I scrubbed my hands that night, I couldn't hold back the tears.
I thought about that old blood-stained cross, something I hadn't done for years.
My hands were tired, from holding a brush, a simple task for me.
His hands were bloody, from the hammered nails that held Him to a tree.
My back was sore from bending low, but I couldn't utter a complaint.
My hands were clean, now pure and white, for the stain was only paint.
I'll always remember what happened that night, for I felt such guilt and shame.
I fell on my face, and thanked God above, for His gift of the bright red stain.
Ó1999 by Vickie Adkins
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|Tear-jerker with soul. Only love abides there.|
|Reviewed by tom vancel
|This is great!|
|Reviewed by Cles Wilson
|What a beautiful poem. Very well written.|
|Reviewed by Bobby Harris (Reader)
Thank you for this beautiful poem.
We are all covered by this red stain.
|Reviewed by Joe McCarthy
|I suppose we all carry a blood stain with us. One day we will need help washing it off.|
|Reviewed by April Pittman
|This was wonderful. I don't generally go for things that are in any way cliche but you told this so very well! Bravo!|
|Reviewed by Victoria Murray
|A wonderful poem by a very gifted writer. I enjoyed your poem very much.
|Reviewed by The Smoking Poet
|As the saying goes... sometimes we miss the forest for the trees... and sometimes we miss the horizon that marks the line of a limitless universe for the red barn in our way...|