Blood Bought


“Out, out, damn spot!”  The blood, fluid, thick, sticky and accusing, could not be erased or washed from the hands of Lady Macbeth. It clung, not on her hands, but in her vision. She could not  wash from her conscience the conviction and condemnation of her evil deed.

Blood clings. A drop falls from a pricked finger and the white cloth might be spoiled if not cleaned at once and cleaned correctly. Blood does not clean easily, rubbed, it only spreads and fades to rust. Much time and effort are required to remove even a pinprick of blood.

Murderers are often discovered and caught by the blood of their victims they either carry with them or leave behind. Blood spatters liberally for long distances. It clings in cracks and crevices, and pools in low and hidden places. The blood seeps downward into mattresses and is catapulted upwards to cling to light fixtures or the ceiling itself. It can be found wedged beneath fingernails or clinging to an overlooked item that was touched and contaminated. The stain of it cries witness to the evil deed that condemns and damns the criminal. Much time and effort is required to remove even a pinprick of blood.

Sweat, like great drops of blood, breaking from a brow of agony, fell and splashed to the ground. The first of the blood, harbinger of what was to follow spattered the garden  rock and soil. Those charged to watch, could only sleep, neglectful of the blood stained ground. Forgetful of the charge to watch and pray, consumed with worldly matters, the blood reproaches my neglectful flesh.

Trickling, fluid, the blood runs from crown to face, mats the hair and finding other welling streams on shoulders and back, join to mingle and  flow. Deep and red the blood courses at the bite of scornful  men. Absorbed by mocking purple robe, the staining blood mocks me, calls witness to my scornful deeds.

Sticky, smeared, the drying blood clings to crack and crevice of the wood on which it rubs. With every step the burden shifts and opens the drying streams to seep and smear once more. Weeping and lamenting, the condemned multitude follows while the blood that dries to rust cries condemnation of my sinful heart.

A torrent of blood, thick and sticky, fluid and unending,  pools beneath the lifeless body. It spatters as it hits  the ground, upward, outward, it reaches as a fountain. The darkened sun could not hide it nor envious rulers conceal or contain it. The blood clings and creeps into every dark and hidden place, fluid with forgiveness, thick with grace. Not to be washed away unclean, but to wash away what is unclean.  “Out, out damn spot!” Not the spot of blood, rather the all consuming damning spot of sin is to be removed. Unlike Lady Macbeth, I may rest secure. My conscience may neither accuse nor condemn me. “Take drink, this is my blood shed for you for the remission of sins.” This is the promise of Christ’s blood that dwells within me, the blood that cleans and whitens, the blood that purifies my soul.


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