JESUS DIES ON THE CROSS
As Jesus slowly sagged down with more weight on the nails in the wrists, excruciating, fiery pain shot along the fingers and up the arms to explode in the brain. As He pushed Himself upwards to avoid this stretching torment, He placed His full weight on the nail through His feet. Again there is searing agony as the nail torn through the nerves. As the arms fatigued, great waves of cramps swept though the muscles, knotting them in deep relentless, throbbing pain. Jesus fought to raise Himself, in order to get even one short breath. ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’
To the thief dying at His side: ‘Today thou shalt be with Me in Paradise.’
To His mother and His closest friend: ‘Woman, behold thy son’ - ‘Behold thy mother.’
In the words of the psalm foretelling the death of Messiah, He cried: ‘My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?’
Father God, You waited
through the long hours of agony,
when He was robbed even
of the sense of Your love, Your presence,
when the sin and disease and hatred
and darkness overwhelmed Him so greatly.
He was wounded for my transgressions.
He was wounded for my transgressions.
As Jesus slowly sagged down with more weight on the nails in the wrists, excruciating, fiery pain shot along the fingers and up the arms to explode in the brain. As He pushed Himself upwards to avoid this stretching torment, He placed His full weight on the nail through His feet. Again there is searing agony as the nail torn through the nerves. As the arms fatigued, great waves of cramps swept though the muscles, knotting them in deep relentless, throbbing pain. Jesus fought to raise Himself, in order to get even one short breath. ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’
To the thief dying at His side: ‘Today thou shalt be with Me in Paradise.’
To His mother and His closest friend: ‘Woman, behold thy son’ - ‘Behold thy mother.’
In the words of the psalm foretelling the death of Messiah, He cried: ‘My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?’
Father God, You waited
through the long hours of agony,
when He was robbed even
of the sense of Your love, Your presence,
when the sin and disease and hatred
and darkness overwhelmed Him so greatly.
He was wounded for my transgressions.
He was wounded for my transgressions.
Father, what love is this of His?
What love is this of Yours
that His dying love reflects?
Your forgiveness for me,
as we gaze upon His sacrificial death,
is truly an underserved gift
as the pardon He spoke to the dying thief.
It is mine if I will only receive:
He was wounded for my transgressions.
He was wounded for my transgressions.
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