Freedoms story .


He saves us in a thousand ways, and we can’t know them all.
Why do we expect freedom to be easy, look beautiful?

It’s a kind of holy wretchedness that is the beginning of his love story…

Freedom is found at the foot of crucifixion…spilt out running down across the hardened earth as the sun hid her face..and all creation groaned under the grief of his sacrifice…

Freedom begins on a wooden cross dripping in blood: sweat, tears and broken hearts.

It held up shame, disgrace, trauma conflict ugly. This is the true freedom walk. One that holds high aches and brokenness. The filth and ugly. Exposed .messy. Destitute.

And in the same moment, it covers all these with love.

The blackness washed white with the red blood of one who loves despite the dark in us, .who extends a hand of grace despite the bruises inflicted by the very ones he comes to save.

Our sin hung him, and he reached out to us anyways.

This is freedoms walk.

The realisation of his love… The unwrappable unstoppable, all sacrificial love of a king and God became man to suffer in our place…

That he gave his own for all of us, and even if there was only one, only me, only you….. he would have still walked freedoms path…paid the price.

The profound weight of such a reckoning shatters chains around my hearts. Lifts the claws from out my skin and sets my eyes on higher things. 

No sin too deep..no failure to horrific. No past to shame laden. Nothing can separate me from my God.

His blood poured out is life to me.  Washing the weight of sin and shame from my soul… And I find power is in this blood.  This crimson liquid gift of life eternal that purifies as it is received. 

His body broken…torn, and beaten. What broke him delivers healing to me. By his strip, I am healed. The flesh accepted, births life and restoration to my broken story. 

It creates a new narrative, rewriting my identity as heavens child.  The one he loves, and I am forever changed by the gift.

Hope and grace is found at the foot of crucifixion.

How contrary in that what looked like the end of hope was not the end but a new beginning …and the lesson in this is, don’t stop on Friday..when it’s darkest night hold tight to the promise of Sundays dawn. 

Kneel low before a risen king and find him faithful, born on the wings of grace…forgiveness and freedom is found on that rough forsaken earth in the most unlikely place redemption waits.

The power in the cross is not in that he died.  But that blood poured out lives on. Sundays coming, and he is risen.

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