Naught of Blood
There’s naught of blood upon the door—
The hyssop is abysmal dry,
We cannot hope to God assure,
That Jesus we espy.
Naught of blood to slake the ghost,
Reporting to the Lord above,
We cannot therefore duly boast,
The trueness of our love.
Naught of blood the lintel swipes,
The door posts barren, long bereft,
The lonely holy spirit gripes;
There’s naught of virtue left!
Naught of blood to make the mark,
The bloodline here is cursed,
Void of fortune, banished stark,
To Sheol now dispersed.
Naught of blood to match the tongue,
Confession of the puissant Lord,
Now to Satan’s malice flung,
With Jesus Christ deplored.
Naught of blood from off the lamb,
Profession of our faith in vain,
Our God is right to curse and damn,
With unforgiving rain.
Naught of blood to see us through,
Our standing is diminished, void,
Tis only hellish night in view,
Our reverence destroyed…
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