I dreamed I woke surrounded

In a large underground room

With blood and mirrors and white sheets

Tainted with untold horrors.

Blood soaked into my pillow

And smeared on every side.

A hovering angel announced its source

The blood of a thousand saints.

I paused in wonder and horror

How could their blood be touching me?

Another announcement came shortly

The blood of a hundred pastors.

I woke and knew it was all too real -

Even if the location was symbolic

And the blood had not literally touched me

And I had not smelled its stain.

The wicked take innocent blood

In false atonement for atrocities,

Getting temporary power from devils

And selling their own souls to hell.

Members of the body of Christ

Who never get hunted and slain,

We share in the sufferings

Of the persecuted church.

Dont speak to us of victory, unless

You are willing to acknowledge and weep

For the blood of those thousand saints

And hundred pastors slain.

Land of mirrors reflecting pain,

Bed drenched with innocent slain

Only the Lord and His recording angel

Mark what has happened here.

(by Sarah M.)