I’ve forgotten what it meant
that You reached out to the leper.
You saw the need and You responded.
I’ve forgotten what it meant that You ignored the condemning cries
and told the sinner, “Go and sin no more.”
I’ve forgotten what You came for.
Sitting with the wicked,
yet separated by Your virtue…
I separate myself by venue.
You reach down into the gutter
and lift up the one in need.
I’d be afraid to get dirt on my Sunday best.
My Christian tie could get ruined.
And You loved those You saw
as You traveled by foot from city to city.
I try not to get caught speeding,
since someone might see the fish
or the church bumper sticker on my car.
Miracles followed You.
They don’t seem to catch up with me.
You did all You could
to make the message known,
while I get scared someone might ruin
the gold edge of my Bible as I witness,
armed with a leather-bound book.
You were armed with a heart of love,
and You died innocent between two thieves
to heal the one who was sick but never knew it.
I’ve forgotten what it meant
that You reached out to the leper,
but now I remember Your touch.
And though nine others forget,
I’m coming back to thank You,
And I’m bringing some of my sick friends.