Cleaning

(For M)

I scrub, I wipe, I rinse and dry.
Again, I do the same thing twice.
The never ending list of chores,
Will chase me now forever more?

My soul, my heart, my state of mind,
Do they need bleach to make them white?
Not true, not true, my memory said,
You wash them white with blood so red.

In confusion, I lay down,
My sponge stayed in the bucket, drowned.
How can this be the colour truth?
If red makes white, what will that prove?

The proof of pure and friendly lives,
Is there to see for all mankind.
The blood that made my heart so white,
Was spilled without an ounce of spite.

’t was Jesus’ cleaning of my life,
He didn’t leave the trash behind.
He loaded all my junky past,
And only left the stuff that lasts.

Photo by Jan Kopřiva at Pexels