In the darkness, the voice speaks to you,
so sure of itself that you believe its lies,
you make them your own.
“I am vile.” the voice whispers seductively,
sure you will succumb.
Satan has the patter down,
a lounge lizard in a good suit,
tall, good-looking, brimming with confidence
born of a lifetime, yours, of success
in keeping you blind.
Imagine his surprise when you laugh,
God’s truth suddenly burbling to the top
like a fresh spring.
“I am not vile.” you croon.
“You can take your circus mirror and go home”
and you dance away like Mata Hari,
an odd looking beauty,
but a beauty none the less.
About this poem.
Job (Pronounced Jobe for my non-Christian readers) was part of my daily bible reading. Job 40:4 reads “I am vile.” Of course, he wasn’t, but the devil and his friends and family convinced him he was.
Like so many today.