(In reflection after taking
the Lord's Supper in August 2009).
"Nothing but the blood," the pastor sings,
As I make my way down the aisle.
Dipping the bread in the cup, I say, "Amen,"
And return to my seat with morsel in hand.
Permeated pinch of bread, lifting to my lips,
I squeeze too hard and it drips on my hand.
'Clumsy, irreverent fool!' I shriek.
The crimson trickles down my skin,
As a trail of blood on my palm.
Startled my fingers curl.
My other hand flies to the spot,
Cupping my hand, as though
Protecting a bloody wound,
Covering an exposed gash.
I gaze at the scarlet.
Such were his stripes that day
When his hands they pierced
And his flesh they flayed.
Sweating tears of blood,
So flowed the cleansing flood.
Like the coal-purged lips of Isaiah,
Once leprous, Naaman's childlike flesh,
Hemorrhaging woman or epileptic boy,
The sinful, withered hand of my soul.
Broken, shriveled, rotting
Now redeemed, renewed!
By his stripes we are healed
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