Strange is it that our _bloods_, Of colour, weight, and heat, poured all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off In difference so mighty. _Shakspere._ Ye Sacred Writings! on whose antique leaves The wondrous deeds of heaven recorded lie, Say, what might be the cause, that mercy heaves The dust of sin above the starry sky, And lets it not in dust and ashes fly? Could Justice be of sin so over-wooed, Or so great ill because of so great good, That, _bloody_ man to save, man’s Saviour shed his _blood_. _Giles Fletcher._ O, thou great Power! in whom we move, By whom we live, to whom we die, Behold me through thy beams of love, Whilst on this couch of tears I lie, And cleanse my sordid soul within By thy Christ’s _blood_, the bath of sin. No hallowed oils, no gums I need, No new-born drams of purging fire: One rosy drop from David’s seed Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire: O, precious ransom! which once paid, The _Consummatum est_ was said. And said by him, that said no more, But sealed it with his sacred breath: Thou, then, thus hast dispurged our score, And dying wert the death of death; Be now whilst on thy name we call, Our life, our strength, our joy, our all. _Sir Henry Wotton._ Stretched on the cross, the Saviour dies, Hark! his expiring groans arise! See, how the sacred crimson tide Flows from his hands, his feet, his side. But life attends the deathful sound, And flows from every _bleeding_ wound; The vital stream, how free it flows, To save and cleanse his rebel foes! Lord! didst thou _bleed_? for sinners _bleed_? And could the sun behold the deed? No! he withdrew his sickening ray, And darkness veiled the mourning day. _Steele._ There is a fountain filled with _blood_, Drawn from Immanuel’s veins; And sinners plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains. The dying thief rejoiced to see That fountain in his day; O may I there, though vile as he, Wash all my sins away! Dear dying Lamb! thy precious _blood_ Shall never lose its power, Till all the ransomed church of God Be saved, to sin no more. _Cowper._ Not all the _blood_ of beasts On Jewish altars slain, Could give the guilty conscience peace, Or wash away the stain. But Christ the heavenly Lamb, Takes all our sins away; A sacrifice of nobler name, And richer _blood_ than they. _Watts._ BLOSSOM.