Saturday, March 30, 2013

not nails.

…as my eyes welled up on Wednesday when we read the story of the passion to the preschoolers
…as the dull ache settled into my heart on Thursday
…as the weight of the guilt of my sin weighed me down on Friday
…as the lyrics of the songs from the Good Friday service resonated in my mind
…as Pastor Sam preached the sobering but joyful gospel from the pulpit Friday evening
…as we soberly watched the 26-28th chapters of Matthew last night
…as the brutality of my Savior's execution made my stomach churn
…as I wept unashamedly at breakfast this morning reading again the story of the Passion from the Jesus Storybook Bible
…as I contrasted my building excitement for tomorrow with the despair and grief His disciples must've felt that lonely Saturday night so many centuries ago
…as we lay out our Easter dresses and suits for tomorrow
…as I practice for playing and singing the prelude
…as I type this out, and read others posts from today
…as I try to picture the day when I will be *physically* resting in the arms of Jesus, touching His nail-scarred hands with my own unworthy fingers
…as the GLORY of gospel unfolds before my eyes

this is what I know:

My Jesus died an awful, horrible, excruciating, shameful death. He was brutally executed like the worst of criminals. But worse than that, His Father turned His face away from His only Son. Silence from heaven as the one innocent Man died in agony of body and spirit.

Yet He could've put a stop to it. He could've ended His suffering with just a word.

This is why I love Him. This is why I want to do whatever He asks me to do, or go wherever He calls me to go. This is why I want to obey Him.

He endured all that pain and torture and complete separation from His Father, bearing the full weight of my disgusting sin and guilt….

…because He loves me.

It wasn't the nails that held my Jesus on the cross.

It was love.

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