In His Sandals
I cannot serve two masters. I serve, but only one, for if I love some sinfulness, I hate God’s only Son. Could I walk in His sandals? Do I really understand? Of what would it encompass? Of what would it demand? Could I put up with some abuse, and could I humbly be, a whipping board of insults, for all to scoff at me? Could I withstand a whipping? Tell me, would I know, the pain down in my open wounds, torn flesh from every blow? Could I, but bear the privilege – to be a king renowned, my face...