Precious Blood Ran Down Its Legs
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I look at the tree in the morning.
It does not bob nor weave.
It knows the precious story.
The one of Calvary.
Its bark. Its bite. Its arteries and veins.
One’s precious blood ran down its legs.
It was cut from the soil.
It was formed to curse.
It endured the pound of the hammer.
It held onto a precious life.
Its bark. Its bite. Its arteries and veins.
One’s precious blood ran down its legs.
The soil remembered the blood of Abel.
The soil remembered the blood of the prophets.
Now, the soil is soaked in the blood of Christ.
Not just another casualty, but a sweet redeemer.
I look at the tree in the morning.
It does not bob nor weave.
It knows the precious story.
The one of Calvary.
If it had moved and missed the mark…
…there’d be a crueler story.
We’d all be history!
Stable and firm in the sin-drenched world.
Splintered and stained by the Word of God.
From the beginning of us, our shame it held.
There was a momentary pause. An angry sky.
God the Father accepted the climatic sacrifice.
I look at the tree in the morning.
It does not bob nor weave.
It knows the precious story.
The one of Calvary.
6/4/2023
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2023
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