They wanted a face to worship,
a carved image, a golden throne,
a king draped in power they could control.
But He gave them none of it.
No paintings. No statues. No idols of stone.
Nothing but scars in a borrowed tomb,
and an empty grave that shattered the world.
Because He is not a relic to admire,
not a memory to be dusted off and framed.
He is living fire.
Spirit and truth.
The eternal, unshakable, unstoppable God.
He did not come with armies,
yet He waged war against death.
He did not bear a sword,
yet He cut the head off the serpent itself.
He did not sit on a throne,
but hung on a cross—
and that is where He won.
They charged Him with three crimes:
First, He loved sinners.
He touched lepers without flinching.
He let prostitutes weep at His feet.
He ate with the filthy, the failures, the forgotten,
and called them friends.
Second, He healed on the Sabbath.
Because man’s religion had twisted rest into a prison.
He broke their chains with a single touch.
He made the blind see, the crippled run,
while the righteous stood by,
gritting their teeth in hatred.
Third, He claimed to be God.
Not a prophet. Not a teacher.
Not one voice among many.
The Voice. The Word made flesh.
The Son of the Living God,
who did what no prophet ever dared—
forgive sins.
Not with rituals.
Not with sacrifices.
Not with demands for men to make themselves clean.
But with authority. With blood.
With mercy that drowned the gates of hell itself.
And for this, they condemned Him.
For this, they tore the flesh from His back,
pressed thorns into His skull,
and drove nails through His hands—
never knowing that the very wounds they inflicted
were the wounds that would set them free.
No prophet has ever done that.
No teacher ever took a cross meant for murderers
and made it a throne of redemption.
No righteous man ever stood in the place of the guilty
and let the wrath of God consume Him instead.
But He did.
And still, He speaks.
Not through graven images.
Not through dead relics of stone.
But through the Spirit, burning within the hearts
of those who dare to bow,
who dare to surrender,
who dare to believe.
I am nothing.
I have nothing to give Him
but my worship, my breath, my heart—
and in return, He gives me everything.
A joy this world cannot steal.
A peace no suffering can break.
A life no grave can hold.
No other name saves.
No other blood washes clean.
No other voice calls a dead man from his grave
but His.
And on the third day,
Hell trembled, Death collapsed,
and the stone was rolled away—
not to let Him out,
but to show the world He was never staying in.
Glory to the One who forgives.
Glory to the One who reigns.
Glory to the Name above all names.
Jesus. Only Jesus.
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