Poetry: The Wicked One

Gordon Ramsay, Newington, CT

With silent speed a serpent moves across the sunlit earth.
The trees and grass and garden bloom in innocence of birth.
Yonder a lovely woman walks in beauty unsurpassed.
Of all created things she is the highest and the last.
Made from the side of her counterpart
- a help to be for him.
But soon she shall become a pawn for Satan’s frightful whim.
She looks and sees a shimmering form
- so beautiful and sleek.
He turns to her and in a silken voice begins to speak.
Did He tell you that if you ate this fruit you’d surely die?
Well, Eve in all your wisdom did you ever wonder why?
The fact is if you take this you will be the same as He
And here the fruit is set for you to eat, and good, and free.
The angels in the heavens watch in horror unsurpassed,
As innocent humanity so young inhales its last
Pure breath
- she reaches forth and takes in hand the cursed thing.
And puts it to her lips to feel sin’s dreadful bitter sting.
The shimmering one is gone in one brief instant and she stands
And beckons to her husband, and places in his hands,
The means by which each human being ever born will die.
He eats and all the color seems to drain out of the sky.
The sounds around seem changed as if they’re suddenly off key.
And all seems bound that in one brief moment before was free.
Emotion that they’ve never felt
- that never had a name,
Brings color to their faces
- they bow their heads in shame.
They find some leaves and make themselves a covering
- struck dumb.
They hide before the twilight when they know the Lord will come.
They hear His voice, "What have you done?" He sounds so full of pain.
Distorted, and so distant, their senses all seem stained.
They tell Him all they’ve done -
and as they sense their heinous crime
His heart is heavy as he looks down through the halls of time.
A rugged cross looms up before His vision tall and stark.
He feels the pummeling, the spit, the impenetrable dark.
He takes them by the hand
- the parents of mankind,
And brings them to a little lamb, which does not balk or mind.
The Lamb is slain, it’s blood is drawn, its death so sobering.
Skin coats are made and put on them to be a covering.
Then put outside the garden to work in sweat and pain,
The man and woman look back to the garden once again.
Forever gone from them the innocence they had within.
All that they now produce will be beneath the rule of sin.
A chasm lies between them and their God, they cannot ford.
If any bridge will cross the span its builder must be God.

Move forward through the history of man so stained and torn.
Up to the fullness of time when the Son of God is born
Into a world so far along in wickedness and crime
That scarcely anyone remains who’s looking for the time

When Christ will come - Messiah, to take away their sin.
In Bethlehem one night the line of David fill an Inn.
Along come a young couple, the woman great with child
No room for them, rejected, they are cast into the cold.
The man goes to the stable for his love to get some hay.
And in her arms when he returns, a little baby lays.
The archangel had told him that a man child would be born.
The King of Kings, The Son of God, The Bright Star of the Morn.
He stammers, a poor carpenter, how can he raise a King?
Is this the one that made the Sons of God together sing?
Surely the nations all will bow before God’s holy Son.
But all the nations wish to do is slay this righteous one.
They dog his tracks, the little family flees, sheltered by grace.
Their journey ends in Nazareth
- the most despised place.

His life is spent in poverty, a carpenter by trade.
At thirty years of age His tools upon the bench are laid.
He leaves His earthly home and goes to travel through the land.
Rich blessings come upon each thing He touches with His hand.
The dead are raised, the crippled walk, the blind receive their sight.
And at the close of day He goes alone into the night.
Up to the mountainside, upon a rock to lay His head.
The humblest of His creatures sleeps, their Maker has no bed.
And in the dawn when He awakes it is with opened ear.
No matter will distract Him from His mission ever clear.
As heaven looks upon this scene so stained and torn and dim.
In one place it sees perfection, one place alone
- in Him.
And can it be that on this perfect one there will be cast
The sin of all humanity, down to the very last?
Can it be possible that on this spotless, holy form
There will be heaped great travesty, that He’ll be stained and torn?
His face with spit, His back with whip, His hands and feet with nails?
The crimes against Him vile
- so that all other vileness pales?
He makes His way to Calvary upon a cross to die.
They lash Him, beat Him, spit on Him, and raise Him to the sky.
The sun looks down from heaven and records a metaphor.
The source of life is dying, How can light be needed more?
The sun and stars extinguish as their Maker now expires.
Why carry on, what purpose, when He dies who made their fires?
From out the blackest darkness comes a mind confounding cry.
Why, God, hast Thou abandoned Him, is there a reason why?
Why does He hang and suffer here, His terror undiminished?

And why now does He shout that it is paid in full, and finished?
My heart is flooded as the realization rushes in.
He hung, and bled, and died upon the cross to bear my sin.
To bridge the gap, to span the gulf, to pay the greatest price.
In Him sufficient value for the whole world to suffice.
And all who come through Him are cleansed
- never to be accused.
The purchase price is paid
- and in our stead He became bruised.
So I through all eternity could sing my praise to Him.
Who washed me in His blood, and purged me from my sin.
Who gave me all I threw away, and gave me so much more.
Who for me became sin, and for me became the door
Back through the gates of paradise, to be with Him forever.
And rejoin a bond that nothing, anywhere can have the strength to sever.