Oh His blood, that crimson flow,
Of it's efficiency, can one ere know?
It washes pure as the wind driven snow,
All who bathe in it's cleansing flow.
From hands, feet and side,
His precious blood, slays all my pride.
Can His love for me be denied,
When on His cross for me He died?
Oh ye Angels and Heavenly host,
Of the twain, who should love the most?
We, who from sin, are now set free,
Or you, who have never fallen as we?
Sad to say, though washed in His blood,
Many Christians today, still wallow in mud;
This must astound all ye in Heaven above,
That blood washed saints would spurn such love!
And yet in Heaven, I'm sure you all know,
We carry this flesh on Earth here below;
We long for the day when in Heaven we'll be,
Free from this flesh and as holy as thee.
© 2005 by Paul H. Leaman
This writing may be used in its entirety, with credits in tact,
for non-profit ministering purposes.
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