Shackles bound my hands and feet, blood mixing with grime as it trickled from my raw wrists. I couldn’t help myself as I struggled against the deathly grip of the merciless chains.
Making my way before the Judge, I looked behind me to see a homely Man. He was wiping my blood from the floor. A sweet sound it was – while a tear slipped down His cheek.
Reverberating through the room, the sound of the gavel was the proclamation of my doom. It was my turn to be tried.
In rapid-fire succession, the Judge stated all my transgressions – beginning from the moment I’d been born. Pride, hatred, murder, greed . . . I couldn’t bear to look at Him. Nearing the end, His voice became so soft and sad. There was no hope.
Lifting His gavel once more, the Judge called out that question which echoes down through time: “Who will save her?”
Holiness demanded retribution.
Retribution that I could not make.
No amount of good works, fancy words, or pure motives would save me now.
My knees buckled under me as the finality of my judgment fell like a crushing blow upon me. The doom that stretched forever before me caught hold of my soul as I fell to the floor.
“I will go.”
Kneeling down, He unlocked my shackles. And put them on His own hands and feet.
Daring to lift my head, I looked into the eyes of Grace.
Leading Him outside, they took Him to my cross. Picking up my nails, they pounded them into His hands and feet.
Where Holiness had required sacrifice . . . Grace had said, “I will go.”
Where Justice demanded retribution . . . Grace stood in the balance.
When God Almighty said, “Who is worthy?”
Grace whispered, “I am.”
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