On that cross there was a man named Jesus. Now by the looks of him, you wouldn't know that. Jesus no longer had his face for it was not just something of a special painting. But it was a gentle face with the acts of Roman solders upon it. No face was recognizable. Splattered on a body was blood. Now not only was it his own, but ours as well. He bleed for no one but us. Now that cross he was nailed on, was his body when it should've been yours. It should've have been any one of us, but sure as ever, it shouldn't have been his. When Jesus carried that cross up that hill, he felt every rock under his feet, every open wound on his beaten body by those brutal whips. For it was not the whip itself who made this marks but the person who caused this. Now, we get to the top of the hill and they lay his body across this wooden cross. They nail into his hands a blunt iron nail thicker than one of our fingers. He felt the nail rip open his skin as warm blood fell to the ground. They did that to both of his hands and one nail connecting both of his feet. Now you look up to see a flesh body dripping of blood nailed to a cross. Was it him who deserved this, for was it you? On that cross there was a man named Jesus. Now by the looks of him, you wouldn't know that. But in that moment... you knew you were free just as much as you were forgiven.
