The Gift.
Incredible, unthinkable.
That the Author of life would die in willing subjection to it.
He claimed my sin as if He had committed it Himself.
He felt the intense rage of selfish desire in the desert of deceit,
And only resisted by the power of the Word,
So He might identify with me in my despair.
God clothed in human frailty, Jesus.
The only Perfect Life, willingly broken, shamed, despised,
By not a few, but the world.
That I might live.
Oh the Gift!
Then came an invitation
Up out of the grave.
He walked away from the tomb to me.
He saw me where I had hidden, there in my wilderness,
Clutching the Gift that I never deserved.
Would I go with Him? He asked.
His eyes pierced my darkness, drawing me – as I was,
A powerless receiver of His grace.
And we began to walk.
The road narrowed but He held my hand.
Every step revealed a cost, until into view came The cross.
My cross.
And my past,
And my goodbyes,
And my tears.
And my death.
And divine invitation to surrender
On that hill of my cross.
Only by His power could I lift my head and fall to my knees.
To lay it all down.
The Gift had been given freely,
His death for my life.
So on this day I could die to myself,
To receive His life.
My death of self for His Life in me.
Today.
In the here and now.
The Prize.
Oh, the Prize!
