A Holy Week Reflection

It was the hour of a murder.  Tried illegally, beaten brutally, mocked incessantly, Jesus was taken to Golgotha.  Barabbas, whose name interestingly enough means "a son of a father," stunned by his luck, watched as the true Son of the Father suffered in his place. 

The road to Golgotha filled with anger and show.  Expressions of sarcastic honor and praise filled the mouths of soldiers and certainly more crowds.  The "Hosannas" of the previous week were completely gone by now.  Not even His disciples sang the tune.

Along the Via Dolorosa, Simon was the only person supporting Jesus; and he was not a volunteer.  He carried the cross of Jesus. 

The cross held Jesus between two thieves.  The accusers felt that served as an appropriate place.  And, indeed, it was; for while He did not belong there as a peer, He did belong, for the sin of those men, and all others, put Jesus there.  He accepted the cross for them, for you.

The burden of all that sin, a weight He had yet to carry, sank deeply into His soul.  In all His anguish, He called to the Father - the sin made Him feel rejection.  Yet, notice the faith - He still called Him God in His hardest moment.

Soon after, Jesus "breathed His last."  Death, true death, wrapped his ugly arms around the Lord and rejoiced.

I See The Monstrous Cross

I see the monstrous cross waiting for Jesus, and I call out, “Jesus don’t go!  Not for me, save yourself.  I don’t deserve you.”
Then I remember that He already submitted to death.  He did choose to go for me.
As I recall His death, I hear the words of His Father,
    “This is my Son, whom I love . . .”
Here conviction falls.
Holding my sin up next to that monstrous cross, I see that the former is the more monstrous.  While the cross is mere timber, my sin is composed of far sicker things.
    Hate lashes quicker than whips;
    Pride beats harder than clubs;
    Anger cuts sharper than thorns;
    Greed pains deeper than nails.
The cross did not choose to hold Jesus; yet I, through my sin, chose to burden the shoulders of the Son of God.
Dare I curse the nails and not the greed?
Dare I call anyone “the crucifier” other than me?

I, through my sin, killed the One whom the Father loves.
    “This is my Son, Whom I love . . .”
These words torment my soul.

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