He
was the king of glory, the Morning Star, the image of the invisible God, the
first born of all creation—by Him all things were created in heaven and on
earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or
authorities. All things were
created through Him and for Him.
He was before all things, and in Him all things held together. In Him all the fullness of God was
pleased to dwell.
And yet, He was
born for this moment. It was for
this humiliation, it was for this shameful injustice, it was for this torture
that He came into the world. He
was made incarnate so that His holy brow might be crowned with thorns. He was made in the likeness of a servant
so that He might be mocked by the very ones He had come to seek and save. He left His throne in glory so that His
back might bear the stripes for our iniquity, so that His hands and feet and
side might be pierced for our transgressions.
Though Pilate
had acquitted Him three times, He was cruelly, unjustly, ignominiously
punished, even to death on the cross.
He who had obeyed perfectly, He who bore no sin, He who had only loved,
only healed, only reconciled was wounded on our behalf. Though He was very God of very God,
begotten not made, of one essence with the Father, He was crucified for us and
for our salvation.
On the cross He
cried out seven times—with words of redemption, covenant, substitution,
suffering, triumph, and resolution.
But His first cry was a prayer of forgiveness: “Father forgive them for
they know not what they do.”
Ever selfless, ever concerned for others, in His greatest agony,
in His greatest humiliation, He interceded for His torturers, His
murderers. He had taught His
disciples, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that
hate you, pray for them which spitefully use and persecute you.”
It was of
course a prayer the Father heard—and answered. Just fifty days later, on the day of Pentecost, a great
forgiveness, a great salvation swept across that very city, piercing through
the hardened hearts of those very sinners.
“O sacred head,
sore wounded, with grief and shame weighed down. O kingly head surrounded with thorns thine only crown. How pale thou art with anguish, with
sore abuse and scorn, how does that visage languish which once was bright as
morn. Thy grief and bitter passion
were all for sinners gain. Mine,
mine was the transgression, but thine the deadly pain.”
Is it ever too
late to say “I am under condemnation justly?” Is it ever too late to cry out to Jesus, “Remember me?” Is it ever too late to possess a holy
fear of God, a heart to do right, and an apprehension of the Kingdom? The experience of the thief on the
cross tells us that no matter what we may have done, no matter how long we may
have delayed, while we yet have breath there is hope. And the words of Jesus in response to him only confirm such
a hope of redemption.
Lord, when Your kingdom comes, remember
me. Thus spake the dying lips to
dying ears. O faith, which in that
darkest hour could see, the promised glory of the far off years. “Jesus, refuge of the
weary, object of the Spirit’s love, Fountain in life’s desert dreary, Savior
from the world above.”
Earlier when He
had prayed for them He did not ask that they be taken out of this world—rather
that they be kept from the evil one, that they be sanctified in truth, and that
they be one.
He had taught
them of the beauty, comfort, and substance of covenant community. He had taught them to bear one
another’s burdens. He had taught
them what it meant to commune with one another, to have fellowship with one
another, to be friends and not just have friends, to know the bonds of love. Now even as Simeon’s prophecy is
fulfilled—that Mary’s soul would be pierced, troubled, and acquainted with
grief—He beckons the disciples to partake of the blessings of the covenant; He
beckons them to love one another in such a fashion that all men might know that
they are His disciples indeed.
He did not
leave us here, forsaken, alone, and sore pressed. He gave right freely Spirit, Word, and covenant rest. In brother, sister, son, and mother, He
calls us to be the church and bear up one another. “Man of Sorrows! What
a name! For the Son of God, who came. Ruined sinners to reclaim. Hallelujah!
What a Savior!”
The fourth cry
of Jesus from the cross was one of substitution. Sin cannot simply be excused. God cannot simply wave off rebellion, perversity, and
effrontery. Transgressions must be
atoned for. Iniquities must be
paid for. The wrath of God must be
appeased. Propitiation must be
made.
So, He who knew
no sin, was made sin for us. He
who had known perfect fellowship with the Father clothed Himself in the filth
of our concupiscence and lasciviousness—and thus became anathema, separated
from God that we might not be, forsaken that we might never be. The Lord laid on Him the iniquity of us
all—just as Isaiah had prophesied.
As Paul later would write, He became a curse for us.
He prayed for
forgiveness for His tormentors—a forgiveness they did not deserve. He beckoned the thief at his side to
enter into a reward the thief could never have earned. He offered His mother and His disciples
the hope of a solace they could never have hoped for before. He called upon them—He calls upon us—to
believe the unbelievable, to receive the inconceivable. And all because He has suffered for us,
paid our debt, suffered for our crimes, was our substitute.
“Hark that cry
that peals aloud, upward through the whelming cloud. You, the Father’s only son, You, His own anointed one. Yet
now, You’re forsaken? Twas me,
twas me that placed You there, twas me that should’ve pierced the air. Twas me that should’ve borne that
grief—yet twas You forsaken instead of me: Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani.”
The great
messianic hymn, Psalm 22 confirmed long before, His suffering, His torture, and
His humiliation: that His garments would be divided by gamblers, that His holy
Name would be mocked by evildoers, that they would gloat over His sorrowful
mien, that His hands and feet would be pierced. And that He would be poured out like water, that His
strength would be dried up, that His tongue would stick to His jaws, that he
would be as dust.
He who was the
fount of goodness and truth, who offered living water that we might never again
thirst; He who makes streams spring from our inmost being, who quenches every
dry and dusty place; He now thirsts that we may ever be slaked. “His are the thousand sparkling rills,
that from a thousand fountains burst, and fill with music all the hills, and
yet He says, I thirst.”
He came for this. He lived to die. And now, after His long agony, the work was done. Finished. Completed. Nothing more to be done. Nothing was lacking.
Through all the
ages men and nations have attempted some kind of an encore, some sort of an
addendum, a coda, something that might round out the work of Christ—but, His
declaration is clear: there is nothing to add, no further steps need be taken. This is the Gospel, the Good News the angels
announced so long before, the glad tidings proclaimed by prophets and sages: all
the requirements are now satisfied, the promise is fulfilled, substitution is
made, justification is done, imputation is applied, redemption is accomplished:
It is finished!
For more than
twelve hours Had been in the hands of men. But now He was again in the Father’s hands. The victory was won. Soon even death would lose its sting.
Sing my tongue
how glorious battle, glorious victory became: and above the cross, His trophy,
tell the triumph and the fame: “Man of Sorrows! What a name;
For the Son of God,
who came;
Ruined sinners to reclaim;
Hallelujah! What a Savior! Bearing shame and scoffing rude; In my
place condemned He stood;
Sealed my pardon with His blood; Hallelujah! What a
Savior! When He comes, our
glorious King; All His ransomed home to bring; Then anew His song we’ll sing; Hallelujah!
What a Savior!”
