For me, I see two wooden logs perpendicularly joined. On them, a shadowy figure hangs- by the tendons in His hands and feet. The pain is gut- wrenching. His eyes are half open, looking up occasionally to the bleak sky. His lower lip, dry and flaky, quivers as He struggles to survive as any human would. His tan skin, tamed by the desert sun, now a deathly pale. The flesh of His back, cut and exposed, cannot rest against the log, His body aches as if fever has taken Him. Nothing can ease the pain. No position, no movement, nothing. His head, made to be crowned, is crowned. Crowned with thorns and draped with cuts and matted, bloodied hair. Below him, several people weep. But He does not mind them, not with the pain, and certainly not with the purpose of this pain. Blood drips from His body slowly. The trickling of the blood is a constant reminder as to why He bears this immense pain. The wailing below does not distract Him. He mumbles, only loud enough for a man below to hear, “Father , forgive them, for they know not what they do”. How sobering is it that a man in such pain can only think of others? Others: the only reason, He, a fleshly man of supernatural being allows this? Others: the reason He resists to use his unlimited powers!
He makes it to the finish- but not alive. No, death was the finish for Him. He ceased to struggle against it. He allowed His own death. While two others being punished beside Him have their legs broken, this man has His heart speared. The blood from His immortal heart spurts from His ribs and falling to the ground below. It falls in an instant in time, yet, falls in slow motion. For the moment it splattered on the ground was the most piviotal moment in history.
How could such royal, holy blood be allowed to shed? Others: it is that word again! Others! This stout, sinless heart- now a sagged, lifeless organ, shed its own blood for others. There has to be a sin in this! Who are we as mortal men to cause the blood of this immortal man to be shed? At the last hope that He may retain life spurts from His ribs, a flash of light streaks the sky. Seconds later a voice booms and moans in response to the light. It seems as if the sky is crying. Crying for joy that such heathen, imperfect men as we can now find salvation through the gift of this immortal man’s life! Yet, the voice booms in deep sadness. Shame on us that we pitiful men had to require this royal, holy blood to be shed.
As the clouds scatter, several men gather below. These mortal men were the followers of this immortal man who was now dead. They had become well disliked, but they continued to follow this man. How must they have felt seeing their leader, whom they knew was immortal, in a deceased state? A sagged, bony body with pale, bloodied skin. Cuts exposed from His flesh and flies feasting on his dried, crackled blood. His hair matted, and bloodied and His lips bare and dry. His eyes shut tight and his brow slightly furrowed- as if He died wincing at the pain. As they wrapped Him and carried Him to a tomb, these men wept as children. Their insides cringed and their souls sobered as they put Him in a tomb and covered it with a large, heavy rock. A rock no man could move, and only levers could move.
For three days, His followers were mocked. Mocked that their King was no king after all. Mocked that their dead Savior was no savior after all. Did he not have a purpose? How could he be immortal if he is dead? Had they wasted their time with Him? Three days had passed and gloom was still on their idle faces and racing minds. But their spirits were lifted on this third day. The rock to the tomb had been removed and the swaths of bloodied cloths He had been wrapped in remained! This was not the work of a human. Who would want a naked, rotting, bloodied body? Who would carefully separate the dried patches of blood and skin from the cloth on this dead, naked man? Supernatural, was it not? His followers were reminded that this King of theirs, this Savior of theirs was, indeed, immortal and of a purpose on this earth. He had risen Himself and was alive! The blood was shed, they were saved by His grace, through their faith and yet....He was alive! He was a King! An immortal King. A Savior! A supernatural Savior. Indeed, this was proven by Him rising again- rising alive AFTER the price was paid. This man did this for us ALL but He did this on one condition: that an individual believes in Him, confess it to Him, repents, and accepts the gift of eternity- paid for by His blood.
Surely, if He DIED for us, we can LIVE for Him! What a gift! Who is this man to give such a selfless gift?? This man was Jesus. The spurting of Jesus’ blood from His ribs, His allowing it, and His ceasing to use His supernatural powers until His own blood was already shed is what conjures in my mind when I think of Easter.
