The Press & The Blood

My former days, in wayward stride,
Deep in the wood of Satan’s ground;
There chained a slave of hellish pride,
With links of steel none could unbound.

There none so chained as who feel not
Their shackles clasping more than flesh,
When feeling not was all they sought,
Free only to their chains caress.

There no one cared to free the bound;
Himself the least of all to care.
But there in shadows, without sound,
One watched and planned a sentence rare.

All justice stood with iron claw
To thresh the soul by just decree
The wine press crushing down, I saw
Rich blood to flow, but not from me.

For there my judge, yes He Who Reigned
O’er Earth and heav’n in pow’r free,
T’was His Rich Blood there bore the blame
That Justice had stored up for me.

I rose from death absolved and clean
To see how vile my sin must be,
That only this most precious stream
Could justice satisfy for me.

I worshiped, love came flowing down
Upon my cheeks like songs of praise,
That trickled low until they found
The depth where mercy bled and saved.

And to this day, my fickle path
Has watched the mercy of that flood
To flow to me from first to last
With visions of that Press & Blood.

The press was mine, but His the blood,
Now raised in Him, in Him to Live;
But His alone the echoed flood
Of humble praise His people give.

Charles Church, 11/17/23