And Jesus called out with a loud voice,
“Father, into Your hands I entrust My spirit.”
Saying this, He breathed His last. (Luke 23:46)
He is dead: this man from Nazareth, the Messiah of Israel, the Lord of the world.
With His dying breaths, He spoke words of forgiveness, finality, and faith.
But now the breathing has ceased, and the lungs that exhaled forgiveness are deflated. My Jesus – dead.
The eyes that looked at the crowds with compassion are closed. My Jesus – dead.
The arms that reached out to the unworthy are lifeless. My Jesus – dead.
The hands that touched the leper are driven through with spikes. My Jesus – dead.
The ears that heard the cries of blind men are deaf. My Jesus – dead.
The lips that that told news of a kingdom are stilled. My Jesus – dead.
The voice that calmed the seas is silent. My Jesus – dead.
The feet that walked on water are stopped. My Jesus – dead.
The heart that bled for sinful humanity no longer beats. My Jesus – dead.
The Bread from heaven, broken on earth.
The Light of the world, in the shadow of death.
The Vine that bears fruit, withered and fallen.
The Gateway to God, now sealed in a tomb.
The Shepherd of souls, struck down by the sheep.
The resurrection and life, a crucified corpse.
My Jesus – dead.
He loved me and gave Himself for me. (Galatians 2:20)