Tonight the lintel of the universe
Will bear the sacred smudge of blameless blood;
Tonight the hand of death will pass us by,
Brooding but stayed to see the bloodstained wood.
The Holy First-Born Son will bear our curse
Tonight, his cup mingled with our wormwood,
And the shining host of heaven will hide its eye
Loathe to recall the death that made this Friday good.
And somewhere in a silent church tonight
Where no one gathered and no praise was rung
Perhaps the angels still are weeping at the sight:
The place left empty and the cross unsung.
Thank God that even if our worship failed
There still was blood for us on the lintel of the world.
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