Jesus died. For you. Let this sip and sink into your heart as percolating water irrigating the dry land. Do not resist it. Do not rush it. Meditate, in silence.

The Life of man, as Man He died. Remove not the tension, run not past the irony. Let mystery silence the noises within, the squabbling rules of logic. For, how on earth is the Glory of Heaven humiliated? This was not for heaven’s sake but for you.

Ponder.

See Him there, wearing a crown. Not of gold or silver, but thorns. See the blood dawdle down from His skull, blinding His eyes. He cannot wipe it away. He can’t. His hands are strained. They are tied. The hands that stretched the heaven and the earth are nailed to a tree.

See Him stripped. Eternal glory hangs naked, His bruised back bare. Feel the agony as his sore skin peels off his back when He pressingly rubs His wounded body on that rough wooden frame. Slow down.

Ponder.

Have you suffered? Look. Lift your eyes to the Cross of Christ. See Him there. See the crown. See His nakedness and hear the screams of agony, of the nails, drilled deep through His palms. Do you see the blood? Do you hear the cry? Conceive of it, louder than your life’s distractions, more thunderous than the sound of your idols.

Ever felt alone? Picture how it feels for the life of He who eternally enjoyed the company of mighty loyal angels to hang in balance, singly on the tree. Imagine the Maker of all things abandoned by all.

“My God My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

Tears? Are your eyes wet? Oh, but you are not there yet. His pain is unfathomable.

Sit at the cross. With Mary. Join John. See, listen, weep, ponder.

Do you see His blood? That should be your own. You are supposed to hang there. That Man is innocent. He did nothing wrong. You did. You wronged Him. And then you nailed Him to the cross for your sin. Yes, you did.

Ponder.

A righteous Man died because of you.

Keep your eyes there. On the Cross. Do you think this is gross? Then see Him suffocating, unable to draw sufficient air. The Breath of Life is gasping for gas. He is dying. Slowly. In agony.

My sin has nailed Him to that cross. It has crowned Him with shame.

What agony!

Then, darkness. Even the sun set early. The stars will not shine. The moon does not move. Creation cries, it’s unbearable. What creatures dare do such to their Creator? How sinful must man be to murder his Maker?

O that we may weep, ponder, and weep again. Stay at the cross, slow down. Sit, think. Do not let Joseph of Arimathea rush in. Give him not the body yet, not so fast.

But when he comes, motion him to sit at the cross too. You must be silent. You must look at the cross.

For, He is dead. He just died. See His blood mingled with water?

Freshwater. Refreshing and cleansing water is gushing out uncontrollably from His side. Stand, sinner, at the foot of the cross. Be washed; be clean.

Jesus died, for me. Down at the cross, I rejoicingly weep. What a paradox! How is it that I who killed the Son of God should be saved by His death?

I ponder.

Mystery. Love. Sovereignty.

I mumble these words, not easily, almost stammering. And as the last drop of blood drips from His pierced side, I remember:

“He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes, we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5

Then it hits me; only the suffering God could save the world from its sin.

In violent silence, I begin to unbelievably rejoice for this unfathomable mystery of God’s Love for me, the “raging fury that they call the love of God.”

Photo Credit: Kat Jayne