I was yet a child the day I went

To a basement room with painted cement,

And I saw Jesus in flannel, in nails;

I saw sometimes love is in the details.

I cried when I saw the blood on His hands.

He was bleeding for me, my sin demands

The blood on His hands.

I grew older; the world grew wild.

I saw war, and pain, and child against child.

I read of the Creator’s sovereignty

But I couldn’t see good ruling supreme.

So I cried when I saw blood on His hands.

How could He have loved us, and still have planned

The blood on His hands.

Through darkest night, the call came in.

I rushed to the hospital, to my friend,

Whose love was bleeding out on the table.

I watched the doctor’s hands, strong and stable.

And I cried when I saw blood on his hands.

How could he face this mess, how could he stand

The blood on his hands.

God’s ways are mysterious, how He moves

Under the surface, but He always proves

The depths of His love, the cost of His grace.

I understand now, He bleeds in my place.

I cry for joy at the blood on my hands.

I am whole, forgiven, loved, and cleansed

By the blood from His hands.