The shedding of blood,
No remission for sins.
What gift-giving can sting more
With the sharp loss but no gain?
The death on the cross was not all that was mine,
But the cattle’s slaughter and the dove’s blood spill:
They belong to me, too.
The death of which I speak is not one, but two.
The first is the weight of all sin
Bringing the Father to crush me,
And what’s more, that it would please Him to do it.
The second is the whole history of the altar,
Its sacrifices and burnt offerings, innocent and cursed
By the knife of my sin’s lethal need for a perfect sacrifice
Through a God who is patient to love me so
While still my very life has earned His own full wrath.
God shedding His blood,
My remission for sins.
What gift-giving can sting more
With Messiah’s death but my life?
The death on the cross was not all that was mine,
But the Lamb’s slaughter and the wrath cup’s spill:
They belong to me, too.
The death of which I speak is Christ’s, paid and pardoned by my Judge.
I shed my unholy shell
Because I am bought.
Lambs and cattle no longer inhabit my home’s realm,
But now the sacrifices which please you:
A contrite heart and a broken spirit You will not despise.
View my contrition now, oh God, as I ruthlessly die,
Happily constrained to be Your own.
Lord, help me die, taking the death You have offered instead of my own.
-Austin Ward
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