Washed Clean by the Lamb

Sin on my skin from the midnight mind. Hands full of

flowers. Wages earned in time. I stand at the door

in the pale moonlight. But the dirt I carry keeps me out

tonight. He sees my gifts, but he shakes his

head. "You can't come. You must wash first," he said. Blood on the

altar in the morning flame. A spotless lamb taken

for another's shame. Priest moves slow through the holy place. Incense rising high

for a moment's grace. But the cleansing faded with the setting