04/03/2026
A Good Friday Poem
The Passover Lamb was sacrificed—
and there was nothing more;
no works produced by human hand,
just blood upon the door.
No tally kept of noble deeds,
no measure of the good;
the question was not who they were—
but were they marked by blood?
When through the land the Angel passed,
with judgment in his wake,
he did not pause for worthiness,
nor ask what men could make.
He searched for one thing—only one,
no other claim would stand:
the crimson sign upon the frame,
the mark by God’s command.
And where that sacrifice was owned,
and where its blood was laid,
death found no voice, no rightful claim,
no power to invade.
It hovered there—but could not cross,
nor touch the souls inside;
for mercy stood before the door
where judgment once would stride.
While Egypt walked in darkened trust
of what their eyes could see,
a trembling people chose instead
to rest in what would be.
Not strength, nor sight, nor certainty—
but faith in what God said;
they sheltered ‘neath a borrowed life,
a Lamb who bore their dread.
And all of this was but a sign—
a shadow cast ahead,
a whisper of a greater Lamb,
whose blood would yet be shed.
Then came the day we call Good Friday—
though no one felt it good;
when once again the Lamb was brought,
and once again there stood
no plea of man, no righteous claim,
no works to justify—
just One who bore upon Himself
the sentence: you must die.
For on a hill outside the gate,
no doorframe marked with red,
but lifted high on splintered wood—
the Lamb of God instead.
No hyssop branch in trembling hands,
no haste, no fleeing night—
but nails that held the Offering fast
in open, public sight.
And once again, the question came—
not whispered now, but clear:
not have you lived a worthy life?
but is the blood applied here?
No angel passed—yet judgment fell
with all its rightful weight;
and death, once more, stood at the door
of every human fate.
But where that blood is laid by faith,
where hearts in trust abide,
the grave itself must lose its claim—
its empty boast cannot abide.
For Christ, our Passover, now has come,
the final Lamb once slain;
and all who stand beneath His blood
shall never die again.
O Paschal Lamb—my Passover—
You gave Your life for me;
Your blood now marks the door of my heart
as once in Egypt’s plea.
I leave behind my failing works,
I make no other claim—
but rest beneath Your covering blood,
and quietly speak Your name.
