A Life for a Life

Maybe life is a ballad;

One where the romance is only seen at its end.

One where the common thread that makes it all make sense has been dyed red,

And it’s really just me bleeding out.

Because there was no romance in it when I was scared;

There was none when I was alone or weeping, crying for Jesus to hold me.

And there was no sense in it all when I didn’t know why,

When I didn’t know where to go or what to try.

But now, I wonder if I see the romance.

I see it only for back then, of course.

And I see the thread tie a bow,

Holding it together as my story grows.

Maybe life is a ballad;

One where I hum the tune but don’t know the words.

One where I can live fast or die slow,

Like in an Old West picture show.

And there is a romance in it; there has to be,

Even if I’m too close to see.

But it is not mine; this body, this life, it is borrowed.

Surely, if from dust, I must return it tomorrow.

If, in this story, I’m stained crimson red,

Then, nothing is borrowed but bought through His death,

For, from His hands, the same color was shed.

An eye for an eye, perhaps;

A life for a life.

And I remain far from the halls of the dead.

If this is my story,

Then it is a ballad,

So I trust His will,

And I have yet to draw my last breath.