Reflections of a Broken Man


On the Foot of the Cross by StephenMac
August 21, 2009, 12:53 am
Filed under: Reflections

**Currently listening to Like Steps in a Dance – anchor&braille @ purevolume.com… Thinking I’ll get this album**

I left immediately after class today. First one out while everyone was in shock I think. I went up to my room, closed the door and prayed. I mumbled sorry, I cried why, I said about a hundred thank you’s. It’s one think to think you’re a failure; it’s something else to know that you’re worse than that, you’re a mocking, hateful, spiteful worm who is loved so much that even while you’re nailing a man to a cross, he’s praying to God for you, giving you the breath that you are taking, giving you the strength to hammer the nails into his wrists.
crown of thorns
I’m not sure exactly where I would have stood 2000 years ago. It is more than possible that I would have been there calling for his blood. I probably would have been driving in the nails that I couldn’t even look at today. But if not, then I probably would be at the foot of the cross, but unable to look. As I averted my eyes this afternoon, my thoughts returned to this poem. Donne wants to be at home, but is travelling this Good Friday. He reflects on the cross, and where he would stand should he be in Israel that day 1600 years earlier. He too could not look, aware of his own sinfulness.

Jesus died voluntarily, out of love, for me while I was at best indifferent, at worst, driving the nails into his wrists. Jesus died because I put him there.

I understood this today. I found a cure to my thanklessness. Thank you, my Lord Jesus.

EBHG

John Donne. Good Friday, 1613: Riding Westward

Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is’t, that I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I’almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once peirc’d with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag’d, and torne?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish’d thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom’d us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They’are present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look’st towards mee,
O Saviour, as thou hang’st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may’st know mee, and I’ll turne my face.

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1 Comment so far
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yesterday was something pretty special. i hope i never forget that moment. after years of being a christian i saw my own sin in a way i never have before – and suddenly understood grace like i never have before.

Comment by katierae




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