Eli Eli lama sabachthani
— the cry of a dying King. A groan that split the heavens, shaking the foundations of earth and eternity. In that one sentence, the Lamb became the curse. The Son, forsaken, so that sons could be adopted.
This is no whisper of despair. This is the roar of redemption. Jesus, bruised and bleeding, hung between heaven and earth as a spectacle of divine justice. Every lash, every thorn pressed into His skull, every nail driven through His flesh was not just Roman brutality, it was the wrath of God poured out against the sin of man.
He had been beaten beyond recognition. His body, flayed open by whips laced with shards of bone and metal, barely held together as He carried the instrument of His execution to the place where death would swallow Him. But what was coming was far worse than the physical torment. He had already endured the betrayal of friends, the mocking of the religious elite, the rejection of the very people He came to save. Yet even that was not the weight that made Him groan in agony.
It was the separation.
Yet in that moment, as darkness swallowed the land, the weight of separation pressed down on Him. Not because the Father was weak. Not because He had abandoned the mission. But because Jesus had to drink the full measure of the cup. He had to feel the exile of Adam, the alienation of rebellion, the abyss of sin’s consequence. Every transgression from Eden to the end of time was heaped upon Him. The Father, in holiness, turned His face away, and the Son felt what we should have felt for eternity.
For the first time, the One who had only known perfect unity with the Father felt the horror of abandonment. The Lamb became sin itself. The Innocent One became the object of divine wrath. The fullness of hell’s punishment was funneled into His body in a moment of unspeakable agony. This was not a metaphor. This was not figurative. This was the real consequence of sin, and Jesus was experiencing all of it.
This was the cry of atonement. A battle cry. A war won in a moment of what looked like absolute defeat. But what the kingdom of darkness did not understand was that forsakenness was the pathway to fulfillment. This was the final blow to the dominion of sin. When Jesus bore the full penalty, the wrath of God was satisfied. And with His last breath, Tetelestai. It is finished. The debt was paid. The veil was torn. The way was opened.
This is why you will never be forsaken.
You were supposed to be the forsaken one. You were supposed to hang in separation. But the Son of God took your place. And because He was forsaken, you will never be.
Do you grasp the weight of that? Do you understand what it means? The very thing that should have been yours for eternity — absolute separation from God, the torment of being cast away forever — was placed on Jesus instead. He absorbed the punishment so that you could stand in the Father’s embrace without fear, without guilt, without shame.
Hell’s grip was shattered that day. The blood spoke louder than the accusation. Heaven roared as righteousness was made available to the unrighteous. The earth quaked because the contract of death was being dissolved by the life of the Son.
Do you feel the weight of it? This is not poetry. This is not theological discourse. This is a call to die. A call to live crucified. A call to abandon your lesser affections and throw yourself into the reality that you were bought with the highest price imaginable. He was forsaken so you could walk in the full embrace of the Father.
So what will you do with that?
Will you live as though His suffering was a minor inconvenience, a footnote in your theology? Will you treat the blood as something common? Or will you let this revelation break you? Will you let it ruin your taste for the things of this world? Will you finally stop straddling the line between surrender and self-preservation?
There is no middle ground. You are either living in the reality of the cross or trampling on its blood. If you believe this, if you truly see what He has done, there is only one response. Absolute surrender.
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