Never again

can I doubt His love for me,

can I see the cross without

fear and trembling and joy.

Never again

can I think of my own

suffering as worth anything

when compared to His

incomparable pain.

Never again

can I fail to understand

the solemn gravity

of my sin that nailed Him there.

Never again

can I praise the cross

and not mean it,

claim His blood as my ransom

and not believe it

can I live under condemnation.

For He has paid it all.

All to Him I owe.

Sin had left a crimson stain

He washed it white as snow.

The dripping blood our only drink,

The bloody flesh our only food:

In spite of which we like to think

That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood-
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.