Login | Support
Images Activity Sheets Books Poetry

Lest Ye Be Judged

by Mark Spencer © 1997

It was an ordinary day.
No signs within the Milky Way.
No prophesies from ancient script,
Pulled from a cave, or moldy crypt.

He just descended from the sky,
No sound of trumpets from on high.
He came to rest next to a tree,
Inside a university.

The students there were all amazed,
Each one of them confused and dazed.
And when He spoke, they all knelt down,
They kissed His feet and touched His gown.

But then a sound cut through the air,
Police cars filled the campus square.
Security rushed from the quad,
Guns pointed at the Son of God.

A teacher saw the Lord's descent,
It was a sight he did resent.
Taking offence at this display,
He had the law take Christ away.

They took the Lord and bound His wrists,
Demanding He cease and desist.
They took Him to the county jail,
And held our savior without bail.

They charged Him with a heinous crime,
Said He would surely do some time.
He broke a fundamental rule,
He's not allowed within our schools.

But what of those Christian Crusades?
The victims of those bloody raids?
The thought of this made His judge cringe,
These innocent's must be avenged!

The truth became a mystery,
They didn't know their history.
The victims they sought justice for,
Had murdered Christians years before.

So, filled with animosity,
They charged Him with atrocities.
Before Yeshua took a breath,
They sentenced Him death.

And as they strapped Him in the chair,
A crackle echoed through the air.
When His self-righteous critics cheered,
The Son of God just disappeared.

Then lightening cut across the sky,
And He was seen by every eye.
His reaper's scythe descended then,
Attracted to the roar of sin.

And all were judged as they judged Him,
As shackles fell upon each limb.
And those who practiced to deceive,
Deserved the justice they received.

The truth exposed each soul's deceit,
And laid them bare at our Lord's feet.
The world ended at that hour,
Weeds of sin cast from each flower.

But these events are leagues away,
We have not reached the bridegroom's day.
We still have time to trim our wicks,
To fix the things that we can fix.

And if these words have made some sense,
I pray they've weakened pride's defense.
But in the end, the roads you've trod,
Remain between your soul and God.

So judge the Lord as you see fit,
But let no earthly soul forget,
That every stone you cast His way,
Will be returned on Judgment Day.

social media buttons share on facebook share on linked in share on twitter
Click Here to contact Mark Spencer to request permission to use this poem.