The Death of the Author of Life
Many men have been murdered, in many ways, for millennia. What is the big deal about some itinerant Middle Eastern preacher named Jesus being nailed to a tree?
If that is all He was, it wouldn’t even be worthy of a footnote.
But the One who was cut off was not like the others.
The One who was cut off spoke the tree, the dust, and the soldiers into existence with a word. The very sun that refused to give light to the world when the Savior was slain was the same sun that rests in the all-powerful grasp of the One with nail-scarred hands.
He was no mere footnote.
The Word is the central plot.
Everything in the past was looking forward to Him. All of eternity is focused back upon Him. Creation is beyond our comprehension. How much more unfathomable is the reality that the One who is without beginning took on human flesh to provide a new beginning?
How marvelous that the One prophesied to be born to a virgin in Bethlehem was the self-same One who knelt in the dust and breathed life into Eden’s virgin clay.
The One who suffered is the One who will wipe every weary tear.
And the Author of life Himself died, conquered hell, and ascended to the Ancient of Days, having earned the kingdoms of this world as His possession.
How dreadful that the race He came to save refused life and delivered the Source of life to death.
These things are beyond our capacity to understand.
How merciful.
How gracious.
How powerful.
That the One placed in the tomb is the same One who defeated death itself.
This Middle Eastern preacher was not merely a preacher.
He was, and is, the very sermon of God.
His murder was a direct attack upon heaven itself.
Yet, who can reach the heavens?
It has been tried by many and failed by all but One; ask Babel if you remain unconvinced.
Only the One who came down from heaven is able to return to that place in glory.
And forever, with the host of heaven, those whom He brought with Him from death to life will sing:
“Holy! Holy! Holy!”
to the Lamb who was slain, yet stands again.