The Man in the Mirror

 In the mirror, there is this man,

    a brow of dirt and ashes,

     or is it the costly stain of sin

       he wears as he looks at me? 

         'Tis after all, shaped like the tree

where the saving Savior bled and died.

 

 In the mirror, the brow now clean,

    the stain scrubbed and washed away,

      the dark smudge that once glared

        and spoke of the unclean not seen

           goes now into tomorrow's light

just as if never worn by the brow.

 

In the mirror, a hand moves to remove

    what cannot be removed, the mark,

      the one not worn on the brow,

        but on the heart, where no one, 

          sees and knows still it is there

'cept the blessed Savior, yes, He sees.

 

In the mirror, a unseen hand now moves

    to wipe away that one dark blot

      that in the heart has so long lingered.

        'Tis strange how blood that stains

           can cleanse even the foulest spot,

the one unclean hands could not wash away.

 

In the mirror, now another man appears,

    the Suffering One, the Dying One,

      the One who scrubs the soul clean

       and even dares to call home the place

         once darker than the blot on my brow.

Praise be!  Gone now the dark spot on my heart.