He was writing the story of his life
In pen and ink with no way to erase.
He had to write down each and every strife,
Not knowing about God’s saving grace.
Like anyone, his story had black spots
Where ink was smudged by tears or shaky hands.
One page was filled with evil plans and plots,
Another filled with fear of sinking sands.
Page after page smudges only increased,
Until he came to the worst of his tale.
Ink spilled on the page, and his writing ceased.
He backed up and let out a desperate wail.
This was a spill he could not e’er forsake.
A new page he was not able to make.

He doused the page with water, but in vain.
To his sorrow, the ink only spread more.
It no longer was a spill, but a stain.
He took the page and threw it out the door.
The page was blown away by a strong wind.
It was carried through skies of brightest blue,
And past the sun’s rays as they star’d to thin,
And landed in the morn’ on flowers of dew.
The page was spotted by a little girl
Who ran o’er to see what was writ on it.
The page felt rough in her smooth hand of pearl,
But that did not stop her from reading it.
Around her neck was a cross on a chain
That touched the page and made it blank again.