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The Cross

The head once crowned with glory, crowned with thorns instead. A crown of humiliation, shame and pain. The thorns lacerating into his tender flesh and drawing blood.

It is dark – pitch black. A constant stream of blood dripping down from the cross onto the ground below. The gasps of slow suffocation meet the resistance of nail pierced hands and feet.

A man, lashed and beaten beyond recognition.

I turn my face away. It’s too awful to behold. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to face the reality of his suffering.

A thought crosses my mind. I haven’t done anything that bad. I’ve never murdered, I’ve never robbed a bank. I consider myself to be a nice person.

The king of glory, Jesus, hangs dying in unrecognisable pain. And I don’t want to admit, or face the reality, that it’s my sin that put him there. I don’t even want to dwell on the brutality of the suffering he endured.

That was the cost of my sin. That was the cost of my shame. That was the depth of my depravity. That was the level of my brokenness. That was the extent of my separation from God.

Jesus’ very life was the price paid for my freedom. For my reconciliation. For my healing. For my chance to live again. To live for eternity.


Jesus looks into my eyes. He tells me – this was for you. His eyes of honesty, compassion and gentleness. There is no reproach. There is only love. A free gift of which I’m still grasping to understand the immeasurable cost.

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