Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Reality of the Cross

Out of your mouth,
creation was spoke into existence.
My frame formed from your very breath.
Breath of life.

So, when you speak, I listen.
I do not follow a religion of "repeat, and repeat again".
I follow the One who speaks life, and life abundantly.

So, I lay here and weep,
and you show me your face.
You meet me in my place of despair.
Because that's who you are. A relational God.

When in the Garden, I didn't have a handbook.
My sins were not forgiven by reading from a scroll.

They were through a man.
His name is Jesus.

He bled. He shed tears.
Was beaten to death. Suffocated.
Pierced in the side.
Whipped time and time again.
Ripped flesh hung from his torso.
Beaten, over and over again.
With every attempted breath in, flesh ripping where dry blood kept it clinging to the wood of the cross.
Blood dripping into his eyes.
Thorns, driving into his forehead.
Spit on. Yelled at. Mocked.

THAT's what forgave my sins.
The purest sacrifice enduring persecution, so I didn't have to.

He was a real man, who died for men.

So, as I struggle and need comfort, not knowing who to turn to....
...I will not turn to page 31 of the handbook.

I will turn to the MAN, Jesus. He is faithful and will meet me here.

I look to the cross, there is no longer a man there.
I look to the tomb, and I find it empty.

He's not there, because He is meeting me, face to face, as I weep on my bedroom floor.

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