One Friday
One Friday
the unthinkable happened.
The Son of God
died.
Not
peacefully,
in old age
surrounded by family and friends,
but
violently,
at age 33,
betrayed,
abandoned,
and denied by His friends,
surrounded by enemies like bulls,
like ravening, roaring lions.
The Word became flesh,
but the leather scourge
weighted with lead balls
and embedded with pieces of bone,
severed the flesh
from the Word.
So the King once clothed in
Majesty
now hangs on a cross
naked,
exposing His bones
to the gaping,
jeering
crowd, gambling on His robe.
The KING once crowned with Heaven’s praises,
Is now crowned with
mocking thorns.
The Son’s Father
is Not
by His side,
But is too righteous,
too pure,
too holy,
to look upon evil,
to look upon His Son
Who became a curse
for sinners, such as me.
So the Son drinks
the FULL cup of His WRATH
Alone,
prompting the Son to
scream,
My God, My God,
Why have You forsaken Me?!
As He drinks God’s eternal justice
condensed into one six-hour cup—
the cup that I
deserved,
that should have been MY
portion
for ALL ETERNITY.
The sky watched as God’s Son
bore my sin, and
from noon to three
when the sun shines brightest,
the sun hid its face,
and the sky clothed itself in black,
in sackcloth and ashes,
mourning the death of its Maker,
that occurred at
the Ninth Hour
when the psalmist’s words rang out,
from the lips
that refused the sour wine with gall:
“Into Your hands, I commit My Spirit!”
The atonement
is completed,
once and for all.
It
is
finished.
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