Joe Yapzor

It was that night—

That dreadful night—

When every home lay still in rest.

I heard sounds behind our abode:

Cries, tears, and wailing.

Firstborn sons were taken,

Of man and beast alike.

Every house around us became a mourning home.

Yes, it was that night—

When I lay curled up, hidden away,

Afraid I’d be struck too.

I am the first son of my father,

The strength of his youth.

As the wailing grew louder,

My hope drained away.

When would I be struck down?

It was that very night—

When my hope for life had withered.

I lay in bed, waiting for death.

After all, I was no different from the rest.

I too was a firstborn.

My father sinned.

And I? An addicted sinner,

Still enjoying my youth,

Still entangled in my ways.

But then came the morning.

I expected mourning over my death,

But instead, there was movement—

Packing, shouting, preparing to leave.

I wasn’t dead.

We were free.

How?

Why?

What spared me from death’s grip?

Then I saw it—

The blood.

Our doorpost was stained

With the blood of a spotless lamb.

That night, death came visiting.

Though I was qualified for death,

Grace skipped me.

It wasn’t my holiness.

Not my strength.

Not my wisdom.

But the bloody doorpost.

Death skipped me because of the blood—

The blood of the lamb.

Death didn’t check the contents of my house.

It only considered the blood on the door.

It was then—

When the blood of the lamb marked me—

I was skipped by grace.

And the blood is still dripping—

From the wood on Calvary.

Reach out.

Call out.

Run to Jesus, the spotless lamb.

The blameless one who pours out his blood.

For that night shall come again—

When all shall cease to be.

But only those marked by the blood of the lamb

Shall be set free.

That night commeth like thief.

Come to Jesus now.