I took communion with my church family tonight. This is something very serious for us, and we only do it once a year, on the Wednesday night before Easter. For some reason this always starts a grieving process for me, that doesn’t end until Easter Sunday.

The brutality of the crucifixion is never far from me, but for the next few days it will occupy most of my waking moments and haunt my dreams. In them, I will flinch as the flesh and muscle are torn from His body, when He is scourged, and as they rip the beard from His face, leaving it bloody and swollen. I will cringe when they shove two-inch thorns into the tender flesh of His skull. And I will beg them to stop when they drive the nails into His hands and feet and as the cross crashes, bone jarringly, into its upright position.

Waking up, in tears, will bring little relief, because the images will still be there. So will the knowledge that the physical pain was only part of it. He took the sin of all mankind on Himself that day, not just the sins of good men, but also those of the worst of us, all of it. Alone, deserted by His friends and loved ones, even His Father couldn’t look at Him.

We’re not worth it. At least I’m not.

Yet, He did it all, because He loves us.

John 3:16 “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

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