The hero

When I finally pass away some day,
I can merely hope and pray
That I will gaze upon HIM.
Though he is constantly depicted in free flowing robes of white,
That is not the Savior I expect to see in my sights,
No, that image simply is not right.
My Savior wears jeans.

Yes, He wears jeans, an opinion I refuse to deny,
And if you need reassurance you only need to look toward the sky,
And gaze at the intricate shades of blue.

His jeans are long, battered, tattered, and torn.
They've been stained with blood, tears, and sweat since before I was born.
The blue varies through fades, and prices He's paid.
The most appealing part of the jeans are the many splotches of bleach,
>From where He has tried to reach and teach,
As He walks to and fro,
Cleaning the coats, of those whom He knows.
And I will be the one of the first to confide,
That those stains on his jeans will stay there with pride,
No matter how much He uses Clorox 2 or Tide,
Because the blotches we see is from where He's lived, thrived, and died,
And eventually risen days after making his crucial decision.
Yes, it is true, I can see through the blue, my Savior wears jeans.