Everyone watched as I grew in wisdom, stature and favor. In the younger years, they were amazed and they marveled how such a one as I could have the Word in my heart and the understanding in my mind.
When it was time to follow in the footsteps of my father, everyone watched in consternation when I hammered not with wood and nails but with Truth and discernment. The wisdom with which they were once amazed was now offensive.
The mob that littered the hill rose in crescendos of anger as the guards jeered and jabbed. Dotted throughout the landscape and near the base of that wooden cross were those who loved me and believed in me. Their outcry poured in tears down their faces.
The blows bruised my body and lacerated with wounds. Blood flowed down that wooden cross, covering the nails that held me there and anointing those who stood below. Everyone watched in their own satisfaction or in their own brokenness.
It was not the will of the masses that held me there nor was it those who restrained me by their authority. It was not the wounds that made me cry out nor the weight of the grief of those who loved me.
It was the separation from my Father that crushed me to death. HIS Presence and HIS Love mean everything to me. HIS Spirit had rested upon me for the breadth of my life. So the only way I could taste death was to be separated from HIM.
The death of self was worth the sacrifice. My death meant that others could know HIS Presence and HIS Love as I do. So now everyone must decide to believe HIM or not but listen and do not forget. Being without HIS Presence and HIS Love is a living hell.