The warrior stood before His death sentence.
In His left hand, He held the cross, the object of misery.
IN the other hand, He held the power to execute His executioner.
The pain of the whip that cut deep into His skin burned like coals of fire on His back, and still He banked the fire of the authority within Him.
He watched the warriors He trained laugh at His wounds, and scorn His reality, and yet He banked the fire within Him.
He let the death sentence become His reality, because He looked far into the future, and saw a little girl, one of many, crying herself to sleep.
He saw her uncle, a spurn of evil, take pleasure from a body still discovering growth.
He saw her look at the ceiling fan and the rope she stole from her dog's neck.
He saw her climb onto the top bunk, and He wanted to offer her another way to die.
He wanted her to know arms that can heal her deep scars.
Arms that knew how to exchange her past for a brand new, perfect one.
So He took the insults, and collected what He needed so He can rescue you.
Jesus loves you.
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