He makes all things new
On my 9th anniversary of finishing chemotherapy
The wounds, though deep and ugly still, Were sown in dirty soil tilled By broken, crimson-stained cross built To bear the one who bore my guilt. Injected, I, with rank poison To kill - they say - my cells, but sin Still seeps and reaps a certain fate Unhindered by what men create. The ground soaked with my blood and tears, Cries Lord of Heaven please draw near! If pruning brings the harvest near, Then can I pray, "Lord, use your shears"? The sun ablaze eviscerates The flesh that reeks with pride and hate. The one who hung on wooden cross Pays my wage, so nothing lost. The Farmer toils, the devil boils, The angels guard the fragile soil. The company of saints withhold Their breath as fire warms death's cold. The wounds and growths still foul with death, But Adam sighs and takes a breath, And slowly points to final sign, An empty tomb, a tomb not mine. Now saplings sprout from soiled earth. Death now spoiled by life's new birth. He waters earth and blazes through The darkness. He makes all things new. ~ Joey Shaw, 2026