The Wound-Dresser

The Wound-Dresser has long been a favorite poem of mine. This (http://www.bartleby.com/42/818.html) Civil War era poem by Walt Whitman is about a man who serves as, you guessed it, a wound-dresser, in a Civil War medical triage of sorts. He witnesses many gruesome injuries, and is quite affected, obviously, by the men he sees. So young, so vibrant, so seemingly innocent. They came into war innocent boys and left it callous, automated, nearly sub-human men. The line of the poem that has always sent a chill down my spine, is this:

"One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you."

This man, this wound-dresser, is so affected by the eyes of these young men, suddenly so innocent once again in the face of their own deaths, that he is willing to lay down his life to save them, and give them the hope of a future. In that glance, the wound-dresser (most likely this would be Whitman, as he did help in these military triage units during the war, as he was too old to be needed for fighting) sees the young men as perfect people. He does not see the men that they have killed, he does not see the things that they have thought throughout their lives, he has not seen these young men sinning day to day, unrepentant for the most part, and he has not seen every horrible, evil deed they may have committed. All he sees is the light in their eyes, dimming. The darkness of the sins clouding their hearts, he sees not.

"For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for a good man someone would even dare to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." Romans 5:6-8

Wow.

Now, as I sit here in bed, with the prospect of waking up for work at 6:45 looming over me, I'm awestruck by how quickly and easily I lose sight of the fact that I am a no-good, dirty sinner, who has no right saying God's name even in prayer, and God, my eternal, heavenly, all-powerful Father...died. For me. His son Jesus, a literal piece of Himself, chose, and yes, it was a choice, to die for me. To sacrifice himself at my feet, as I spat in His face. How does one live a life to make this sacrifice fair? One can't. There is absolutely nothing I can do in this life to earn a pat on the back from God as I enter His Kingdom. God has had grace on me, and that is it. The least that I can do, is offer up my body, however weak, and my life, however messy, to service in His name.

Jesus makes that wound-dresser look like a sissy! It's one thing to long to die for someone, to sacrifice one's self. But Jesus DID it! He actually followed through, and all along, He was aware of how unworthy I am. It can't have been easy. I couldn't do it.

Well, my eyes are drooping as I type, but I really felt like I needed to write on the parallel I saw in this poem. The incredible difference between a human's desire to sacrifice, and God's act of sacrifice.

Walk in the light, people.
God Bless
Seth