The Cure For Our Sin

 

 

 

How do we live in delusion and dream?

 

How do we not all our wretchedness see?

How can we walk in such vileness and sin,

And never yet notice this corruption within?

From the eyes of our God I now rightly see

All of my motives now sickening to me.

How filthy is man which drinks iniquity from a stream.

How leprous with corruption ever present it doth seem.

Putrefying flesh that we coddle and love

Evermore inflaming His wrath from above.

Yet flattering ourselves we take comfort of heart.

Till our very soul is stuck through with a dart.

At every movement and every turn

Our pride and our lust doth continually burn.

Drunken on all of our sin and our pride

Innumerable sins that no one can hide.

Yet eyes become blinded by this feverous infection

And our wretchedness escapes our very detection.

Take heed to the pleasures you secretly embrace

For you cannot now see its pure shame and disgrace.

Yet one day your eyes will be fully open.

That you cannot now see is you’ve had none to holpen.

Yet even now with a declaration

You cannot see your abomination.

How will you respond to the word of our God?

Will you cast it down; under foot will you trod?

Can you not see the motions of sins?

With its conception in lust it begins.

With your mouth you declare that it is not right.

But your heart is not in it and mounteth no fight.

The whole head is sick and the whole heart is faint.

And whatever this flesh will touch it doth taint.

How can there be no fear of God before our eyes?

Fearfulness shall be the hypocrites’ surprise.

There is no comfort and there is no rest

Apart from the one in whom all are blest.

And only as we abide in His light can we see,

The cure for our sin was at Calvary.

The blood that he poured out on the ground,

Is all that can make a wretched one sound.

For it taketh from us the life of this body.

And satisfies Him alone who is Holy.

All that you crave and desire to see,

Was accursed in Him who hanged on a tree.

If only we see that for this sin was he hung,

Then all of our longings seem as filthy as dung.

That we can still look for pleasure therein,

Is a clear warning to us of the wickedness of sin.

Oh that we tremble to see just a spot,

For it is the beginning of the vilest of rot.

The movement of will that reaches for pleasure

Is not to be prized nor sought as a treasure.

For as you are fawning over this that you think,

Toxicants are numbing your heart as you drink.

And could you see soberly on this thing that you wait,

You would vomit it out with the vilest of hate.