The Accused
“All
rise!” I hear the bailiff say,
My shoulders are slumped,
My head is bowed,
I dare not cast a glance at the
prosecution.
The
Judge walks in,
His
robes are white,
His
face shines so brilliantly
I
must close my eyes,
And
as I do,
A
single tear trickles down my nose.
A
gentle hand,
Soft
yet firm,
Scarred
yet perfect,
Reaches
out without a sound,
And
catches the tear.
I dare to chance a glance:
He looks down at my tear with love,
An overwhelming compassion,
And I am broken yet filled,
Weary but strong.
“Let the accused state their name
for the record,”
The
Judge states clearly in a voice as soft as the breeze,
And as
booming as thunder directly o’erhead.
I
tremble and find the tears coming more steady now.
“Your Honor,”
The
prosecution scoffs,
“She’s so ashamed she cannot
even tell you her name,
“She knows of her guilt,
“Let’s dispense with this
charade.”
The
same gentle hand which caught my tear
Now
rests firmly on my back,
And
in a voice tender and low,
He
tells the Judge:
“Hers is a name you
know very well, Father.”
“Because we have been here so
often!”
The
screeching voice of accusation rings far too loudly.
I
shudder, wishing I could hide.
“No.”
The lone word fills the silent void,
Nothing else is said.
I peek
timidly up.
The
Judge looks down upon me,
He
smiles.
The
prosecution attempts to voice his charges,
The
Judge and my Defense glance at him.
He
shrieks in apparent agony at their withering stares.
“I know her name,
“I know her face,
“I know her life,
“Because I made them.
“They are precious to me.
“She is precious to me.”
“SHE HAS VIOLATED YOUR LAWS!”
He
screams.
“So have you,”
The
Judge states softly.
“She is worthless!”
“She is mine,”
My
Defense replies.
I am whole.
The
prosecution slams his briefcase on the table,
“I’m not finished with you,”
He
sneers down his long, well-manicured finger at me.
For the
first time,
I
notice him.
He is
handsome in a tailored suit,
Perfect
haircut,
And
angular face.
But as
I stare,
Something
shifts.
He
becomes ugly,
Sinister.
I
recognize him for what he is,
And I
draw closer to my Defense.
The
prosecution taunts my weakness
In
clinging to my Defense,
But I
ignore him.
He
leaves,
And
another moment of silence ensues.
“Papa?”
I hear my timid voice echo in the
empty courtroom.
“Yes, child?”
“Why do you listen to his accusations?”
For once, my question of the Judge
Is not accusatory.
I just want to know.
“Oh, my child.”
He
steps down off the bench,
Rounds
the corner of the witness stand.
He is
imposing,
Yet I
feel no fear,
Nor
shame.
“How did you do that?”
My voice breaks
In wonder
And confusion,
At the removal
Of the pain in my chest
For all I have done.
“I took your guilt.
“I took your shame.”
My
Defense tells me.
“I do not listen to the
accusations,
“Child, I cannot hear them.
“I see my Son.
“I hear my Son.
“Not you nor what you’ve done.”
“Then.
“Why?”
“One day,
“He will no longer be allowed to
bring cases before me.”
“That will be a beautiful day.”
“Yes, my child.”
“You look sad.”
“Because first many more must die,
“Many will be martyred for my
name,
“Many will be accused before me.
Many will be lost for eternity.”
“That hurts my heart.”
“Mine as well, my child.
“So now you must share the
victory.”
“Papa?”
“You must tell others of what is
to come.
“Every knee will bow.
“Every tongue will confess.
“My Son is Lord.
“That will be a great day,
“But greater than that
“Is the day when one chooses Him
“When one is saved by faith.
“I love when my creation
“Worships me because of love,
“Not because they must.”
I withdraw a little.
Shame threatens to cloud my view.
Tears poke my eyes.
“Child,”
The
Judge says with tenderness.
I look up.
“I’m afraid,”
I whisper.
Then
I see,
The
scars.
My
Defense has taken off
His
suitcoat and
Rolled
up his sleeves.
“You have nothing to fear.
“I am right here.”
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