Remember crucifying Christ?

A year ago I cried. I did not just cry, I wept, and I helplessly wailed for hours. I could not cope with the unfathomable amount of pain and suffering in the world (I will not list them, you will not have to look hard to discover there are too many). For about a week I was depressed. The tragedy of my state wasn't that I doubted in Jesus. I believed in my salvation, but too many people didn't have it, and their suffering seemed in vain. They did not know Jesus, and no matter what effort I put forth, I could not save the world. Then something happened. In my misery I saw Jesus, and He was crying too. He was suffering, bearing the pain caused by every sin. I remembered that I too was a sinner, and that I contributed to the suffering of Jesus. I was just another sinner standing in the crowd mocking Him up on the cross—and yet, He still loved me, He still saved me.


I Scorned

My soul hides in my wincing guts
from the hourglass of the heartbeat.
My eyes taunt His defeated droop
like the caw of a black crow.
My wrists tingle at the—
tedious teething of my abuse
leading Him to the cross.
Hail the King of the Jews, I said,
and I spit on Him.

The Son mourns
weeping willows into the ground,
and bleeds the soaking bank into form,
and offers refuge.
And the torrent of tormenting death drains,
deaf to the cry of God’s plea.

In His forsaken thirst
He breathed His last.