The Child of The King

One day, not so very long ago,
Laid the child of the King
Beaten and bruised, in the street, in the cold.

Beaten and torn she laid there and bled,
Ashamed and dismayed by the life
She had led.

She's lost sight of the palace in which she should grow
As she wandered away to the
Bright lights of the world's show.

She squandered her rank and dismissed her Father's rule
As she danced the devil's dance,
Becoming it's fool.

The King roamed the land and desperately sought her
Until He found this filthy waif
Who resembled His daughter.

She cringed at His sight
And turned away from His hand:
"What must He think of this damsel now damned?"

Tenderly, gently, He lifted her in His arms.
Carrying her boldly away
From further harm.

Disregarding her stench, ignoring her shame
He rejoiced as He carried
The child with His name.

He cleansed her filth.
He bound her wounds.
He bathed her in perfume.
He dressed her in silk.

Proudly He gave her the riches she'd never owned
As He restored to her
Her rank and her home.

Feeling unworthy, she turned to flee
She stopped in her tracks as
She heard her Father's plea:

"I have given mercy, let no fault be found!
Her sins and her shame are the west from the east!
This is MY child in whom I'm well pleased!"

Never doubt for a moment
That this story is true.
For the child in this story is me and is you.