Jesus dragged that splintered cross toward Golgotha’s hill for me. Burning muscles and tearing flesh. Spirit broken.
I can’t comprehend love like that–love that loved me before I loved Him. Love that accepted me at my worst but expects me to be my best. He became my sin and was punished for it.
Jesus stretched out his arms and was pierced for me. Pain for me. Spat upon and mocked by angry men, foaming at the mouth with hatred and fear. He was thinking of me with His face to the sky; a resilience that was not of this world. He cried bloody tears for me. His soul must have quivered at the hell that was encroaching. Thunder booming, lightning electrifying the sky.
The Lamb died for me.
But then…He came back for me…so I could know the mystery of His living presence. So I could live fully, with hope. I can’t explain it, and I don’t need to, really.
“You killed the author of life, but God raised him from the dead. We are witnesses of this.” Acts 3:15
If He did this for me, He did this for you.