[Praises - TSW] Are You Washed in the Blood?
[Music: click here]
Silence echoes off the vaulted ceilings, today’s quiet breathing and the rustle of soft pages mingling with the remnants of last week’s, last month’s, last year’s hymns. Here and there she can make out a note. Mostly it sounds like buzzing.
The hymnal rests heavy on her lap, pressing down on damp denim. The blood came out, for the most part-at least the staining is even. Her sweatshirt’s still drying. Bare arms and wet hair (she washed that in the sink, too) make her shiver as the songs brush against them. She grits her teeth and focuses on the open page, on the words.
Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
I don’t know. I don’t know. Her eyes are drawn back to the notes, one foot tapping out the beat unconsciously. The thought comes to her then: Blood, yes, but not His.
She’s pretty sure that doesn’t count.
She closes her eyes. The hum of the tune settles around her again, filling her mind and leaking out through her ears, her nostrils, her fingertips. It tickles and vibrates, warming her, and when she opens her mouth to take a breath the sound rushes out of her-not music, but force, slamming into the back of the pew in front of her and setting it alight. The crackle of the flames is a whining buzz, and when she opens her eyes she’s unsurprised. Blue again.
She doesn’t want to touch it, but not here I can’t let it here she calls it back again, swallowing the bitter taste at the back of her throat. She can still hear the fire inside her, or perhaps that’s just her panicked heart. Please, don’t let anyone have noticed.
But when she looks down, her arms are wreathed in the stuff, blue flames flickering along her veins, burning themselves into her mind so that even when she closes her eyes, squeezes them tight, prays- they’re still there.
She hunches down in the pew, arms wrapped around herself. She’s no burning bush. She knows this isn’t from God. And either He has no power to take it away or- she doesn’t want to think it- maybe He just doesn’t care.
There’s a fountain flowing for the soul unclean,
O be washed in the blood of the Lamb!
She needs to believe it. There’s got to be a way to make everything alright.
Silence echoes off the vaulted ceilings, today’s quiet breathing and the rustle of soft pages mingling with the remnants of last week’s, last month’s, last year’s hymns. Here and there she can make out a note. Mostly it sounds like buzzing.
The hymnal rests heavy on her lap, pressing down on damp denim. The blood came out, for the most part-at least the staining is even. Her sweatshirt’s still drying. Bare arms and wet hair (she washed that in the sink, too) make her shiver as the songs brush against them. She grits her teeth and focuses on the open page, on the words.
Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
I don’t know. I don’t know. Her eyes are drawn back to the notes, one foot tapping out the beat unconsciously. The thought comes to her then: Blood, yes, but not His.
She’s pretty sure that doesn’t count.
She closes her eyes. The hum of the tune settles around her again, filling her mind and leaking out through her ears, her nostrils, her fingertips. It tickles and vibrates, warming her, and when she opens her mouth to take a breath the sound rushes out of her-not music, but force, slamming into the back of the pew in front of her and setting it alight. The crackle of the flames is a whining buzz, and when she opens her eyes she’s unsurprised. Blue again.
She doesn’t want to touch it, but not here I can’t let it here she calls it back again, swallowing the bitter taste at the back of her throat. She can still hear the fire inside her, or perhaps that’s just her panicked heart. Please, don’t let anyone have noticed.
But when she looks down, her arms are wreathed in the stuff, blue flames flickering along her veins, burning themselves into her mind so that even when she closes her eyes, squeezes them tight, prays- they’re still there.
She hunches down in the pew, arms wrapped around herself. She’s no burning bush. She knows this isn’t from God. And either He has no power to take it away or- she doesn’t want to think it- maybe He just doesn’t care.
There’s a fountain flowing for the soul unclean,
O be washed in the blood of the Lamb!
She needs to believe it. There’s got to be a way to make everything alright.