The image of the cross has become so culturally trite, adorned with rhinestones and lying glittery on bare breasts. How far we have come from that rugged wood of old and its sobering reminder of souls purchased with unblemished blood.
He stepped out of splendor, away from the continual shouts of "HOLY HOLY HOLY," where the train of the King's robe fills the heavenly throne room. A room heavy with majestic perfection. In His complete divinity the son of God humbled himself and veiled his glory in man-skin, placing his two feet on this broken earth...
motivated by incomprehensible love.
Then he drank it. The cup filled full of the Father's holy wrath. Every ill-word, every hate thought, every selfish intent, every lustful yearning, every child molested, every prideful bent, every declaration of my glory rather than Yours. Every single sin needed covering. His holiness, by its very nature, demanded.
So he drank it. He took the cup and willingly put it to his bloody, beaten lips. The wrath that we deserved.
He heard the scorn hurled. He saw the faces twisted in contempt. He knew the very veins on the hands of the fingers pointing accusations. He could have called each man, each woman, by name. For in the beginning was the Word...and the Word became life and dwelt among us. Jesus. And he came to die.
Remembering Good Friday and the penalty imposed with overwhelming thanksgiving.
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