It was the day the innocent was executed for the guilty.
The day God poured out wrath, and the sky itself went black.
The day justice was satisfied—not by words, not by works, but by wounds.
For me.
This isn’t theology for debate. This is blood pouring down. This is a body broken, a veil torn, a cry echoing across eternity:
“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”
He knew the answer.
He said it anyway.
For me.
It wasn’t just nails. It wasn’t just whips. It wasn’t just a crown of thorns.
It was my shame, my pride, my lies, my lust, my cowardice, my rebellion.
My sin.
All of it.
Every dark corner of it.
And He didn’t flinch.
He stood there in my place, took what was mine, and gave me what was His.
He gave His back to the scourge, His face to the spit, His hands to the spikes.
He gave His life, His breath, His blood.
For me. For me.
He gave Himself for me.
Not when I cleaned myself up.
Not when I said the right prayer.
Not when I showed up to church or fixed my life or found my purpose.
No.
While I was still a sinner… Christ died for me.
Not abstractly. Not hypothetically.
Personally.
He saw my name.
He knew my face.
He carried my weight.
And when the sky grew black and the earth shook and the temple curtain ripped down the middle…
He didn’t run.
He didn’t rage.
He didn’t retaliate.
He whispered to the Father, “Forgive him. Forgive her.”
Forgive me.
And then—He bowed His head and gave up His Spirit.
Not because He was weak.
But because the work was done.
Because justice was satisfied.
Because love had gone all the way.
For me. For me.
He gave Himself for me.
Let the world chase its heroes.
Let religion polish its masks.
Let culture entertain itself to death.
But I will kneel at the foot of the Cross and remember:
This was my execution.
This was my rescue.
This was my ransom paid in full.
And it was not cheap.
So let the sky be dark. Let the mood be heavy. Let my soul be still.
And let my only boast be this:
“The Son of God… loved me, and gave Himself for me.”
(Galatians 2:20)
Cyn.
Amen!