Poetry

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It must have left a trail,

From Pilate’s hall,

To Calvary’s hill.

And every precious drop,

He lost along the way,

Was shed for you and me.

Beaten and abused,

Flesh torn apart,

That precious blood,

Was drained.

Can you see Him,

There upon that hill?

Covered by the blood,

That to this day,

Still flows from Calvary.

Kneel down, reach out,

Be covered by His blood.

He gave His life,

Shed that precious blood,

To give new life to you.

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