Proud of These Scars

My daddy always
Told me to be proud
Of my scars.  They are 
The marks that tell stories
Of the wars waged
In life;
Real or imagined,
In play or in strife.
When the fire burns,
And a decision is made
To run toward the flame,
Not away,
These cracks in the skin are
The evidence of courage
Tried and won.

But as I gaze
Across my body and see
The scars I bear,
Shame encompasses their tales.
A rope wrapped around the neck;
Stomach pains produced from
A self-inflicted poisoning;
Lines along the forearm reveal where
I called a knife a friend in a moment.
There are more.
How can pride be found
When the marks borne
Revealed I fought a battle
Calling myself the enemy?

But there is Another 
Who bears scars.
Inflicted on His behalf,
Descended from heaven
To adopt the guilty charge 
That was my own.
I stand ashamed.
However, the King
Who became a criminal 
For my sake
Demands that I refuse to retain
The refuse of my past.
The burden borne is
No longer mine;
I do not stand condemned.

His innocence exchanged
For my guilt, pain, and suffering.
His body broken so
That I might be healed
Wholly.
So the specks I wear now
Are evidence of a war
Already won;
The cross and empty tomb
Of Jesus defeating
the satanic enemy
Who abhorrently hates
And cunningly deceives.
His love compelled Him

And now I stand

Justified in His stead.
These scars reveal a grace
That goes deeper than my shame.
My face is His delight 
As He calls me His child;
His face is my delight
As I call Him my Redeemer.