This is, God willing, going to be the first of a series of posts. It started as one post, but it kept growing as I did research for my Western Civ paper. See, I’m writing about martyrs. But that’s not what started this theme. Nope. Actually, what started my thought process (as usual) was a song (and a comment from a roommate).

Let me preface this with a very important fact about me: I hate blood. I can’t do blood. Once, my dog broke a toenail and bled. I freaked out and couldn’t even look at her. Then there was the time I had to go get a blood test. The lady drawing my blood looked at me and said, “Are you ok? Are you gonna pass out?” (Not really encouraging!) I couldn’t look the entire time, and I could hardly breathe. Or, if you aren’t convinced yet, I have this third story. I can’t do blood in movies/TV shows. Like the other night. My roommate and I were crowded around my laptop watching an old TV episode. All of the sudden, this character gets stabbed with a spear thing that’s bigger than my head. Yeah… I felt pretty grossed out. And it wasn’t even that gory (considering what happened). Blood just does that to me.

Ok. I think you get the point. Moving on.

My roommate knows all this stuff about my aversion to blood. So she generally warns me when we watch movies and such. She is keenly aware of my feelings and just takes awesome care of me in that way. I imagine that’s why she reacted like she did to the following exchange.

So, we were listening to music together, as usual. I would play a song or two on my laptop, she’d do the same with hers after that. Back and forth, back and forth. When it was my turn, I played a song by Tenth Avenue North. It’s called “Hallelujah.” If you know the song, you might see where this is going. It’s an amazing song about Jesus and us and what He has done and what we now can do. The chorus says, “Hallelujah for the blood of the Lamb that was slain.” But that’s not what gets me. I can avoid that image a little better. It doesn’t bother me. The part I talk about, the part I love, is the bridge.

“You spread Your hands
And made a refuge for the weak and blessed
The weary, bruised, and broken
Took our sin. Inside Your wounds we hide away
Inside Your wounds we hide”

Here’s what I shared with my roommate when these lines played from my computer (plus some extra thoughts I’ve had since then):
Isn’t that beautiful? “Inside Your wounds we hide away / Inside Your wounds we hide.” How awesome is that! Jesus is there wrapping His hands over us. His hands are so big that I can slip inside the nail holes in His wrists. I climb inside, in that bloody mess, and curl up in the warmth. His blood covers me, and I can enter into the Holy of Holies, I can commune with God because I am righteous by Jesus’ blood. His blood is all over me. His wounds hold me safe from all the eternal dangers. Anything that fights for my soul is repulsed by His blood, but that same holy blood is safety and love for me. Those bloody hands and feet are my refuge.

In response to this particular rambling speech, my roommate looked at me and said, “Jesus’ blood doesn’t bother you?”

The question floored me. “What?” She repeated her question. And I thought.
And thought.
Finally I answered. “I guess it’s because Jesus’ blood is safe.”

Jesus’ blood is safe. It’s the blood that covers us and washes us clean. Jesus has saved us by His blood. By His righteousness. Wow.


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