poem

Next in Line

Imagine the noisy crowd
clamoring for the attention of Jesus.
The paralyzed. The blind.
All calling His name.
I see myself there,
lame in heart.
Waiting
while others push ahead.
The stench of sweaty bodies
makes me nauseous.
Dizzy.
The noise level rises.
The excitement is palpable:
The blind see.
The lame walk.
The deaf hear.
And I’m next.
I can see Him now.
If I reach out my hand,
I can almost touch Him.
Almost.
Wait.
Where is He going?
I throw my reserve aside and call out:
“Wait. Please!”
But He’s already in the boat.