Most of us have seen it,

The image of the bird

Covered in crude oil.

The poor thing is destined

To die

If someone doesn’t come

To its aid.

It obviously can’t fly

When its feathers are coated

In the thick, black pollutant.

Loving, caring hands

Make all the difference.

It’s the same with me.

I would be so weighed down,

If left to my own devices,

That I’d never get airborne.

I am glad Someone

Rescued me

So long ago.

He continues to do so

Every time I risk

Getting too close

To the grime that surrounds me…

And, too often,

It doesn’t only coat my exterior.

It seeps inside

And holds me down.


With eternal thanks,

I take to the skies.

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow (Psalm 51:7, NIV).


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