The Real God, Hanging

When I gaze upon your cross, your body hanging there, I understand—how could it be another way? For, to this world of pain and sorrow, how could you come to us in any other way?  Pain speaks to pain, sorrow to sorrow, and we understand one another, in our suffering. Were this simply a world of mirth, and of parties only—well—your cross would be unfathomable. For, the healthy do not need your healing touch. But, our world is cancer-ridden, a cemetery in space, for the dead and almost-dead, and the dying. Only our illusions hide this tragic truth. Through tears I see you on your cross, and you make perfect sense to me there. What help would you be, if you came to us in aloof, indifferent victory? As victorious God, far above us in the heavens, distant from our lives here in the dirt? How could we then relate? I’m grateful that you came here, to relate! Now, your blood and sweat I do imbibe, and you speak to me so clearly; I see you and I hear you on your cross, as I am hanging from my own. It cannot be another way—not here, not now—therefore, I wouldn’t want it any other way—but only what is true, and only what is real.


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