Mosquitoes

On a lesson-learning evening,
about a'half-past nine -
some pesky small mosquitoes,
wanted quick, to dine.

But trapped, they were, within a space,
between the screen and glass -
imprisoned in their little world
from which they could not pass.

Against the screen, I could have heard
a tiny little thud -
but safely I, on other side,
kept every drop of blood.

My world was way off limits,
and I, they could not bite.
The only thing that they could do?
Take wing in futile flight.

Continuing in vain attempts,
they tried and tried and tried.
But in the end they shriveled up,
breathed their last, and died.

This poem's end? No, it is not -
for God had sent His Son -
and placed Him too, in our small world -
a sacrifice of 'one'.

We're not a'one bit different,
for we are just like those -
who found a Man in our own world
and 'ate' Him like mosquitoes.

Don't let confusion linger,
or lack of understanding -
for 'blood' was the whole subject on,
this lesson-learning evening.