Tonight I'm asking what love is. Staring into the lights so faint in the night. Pondering. With an aching bruise on my edges. Sore, tender, broken. Here I am. The purple and blue of my skin is nothing to what yours was, fresh from the whip, flogged for selflessness. The blood coursing through my veins speak of the life you've given me.
And yours was poured out.
Onto dry, cracked ground. Splashed upon hard, silent stones. And it soaked into the wood of two boards strewn together for your murder.
Your murder... to you, your willing death. Your sacrifice which paid the greatest price of all.
Who can fathom this gory, gruesome, glorious reality. I can't even grip with this means. Give me better understanding, greater insight, and a softer heart.
I can't realize any part of you without you touching me. Without your spit and clay smeared upon my eyes. Can't see 'til you change my heart.
Can't grasp the trembling truth of a man dying upon a tree and a God giving mercy to his enemies. Or what that really means, really, truly means, the extent and ramifications of what that does for me, you, and the world.
What is love? Is this love?
And why do you give love to me?
I bow, broken and unworthy... blessed beyond measure. Somehow, sacredly and scandalously rescued by blood, death, and sacrifice.
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