It was just a lamb.
That’s all Micah could think as he watched the priest carry it to the altar. The animal trembled under the weight of hands that had done this a hundred times before. The blade gleamed in the sun, and the blood—it came swiftly. A wriggling life turned still for the sins of others. Micah looked away, but the image stayed.
Years later, when Micah heard about a man named Jesus, that memory rose uninvited. Because that, too, had been just a man. Until He wasn’t.
“But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed.” —Isaiah 53:5
There’s a question whispered in hospital beds, behind ruined marriages, and after terrible news: Why did Jesus have to die?
It’s more than grief we feel—it’s guilt.
Somehow, deep down, we know. Things are broken between us and God. No matter how we decorate our lives with good intentions, something decays underneath. That’s sin—a word often softened or blurred, but Scripture doesn’t flinch. It stares us in the eye. “All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned—every one—to his own way…” (Isaiah 53:6). That’s the story of the world. Of me. Maybe of you too.
And sin always pulls something down with it.
Hebrews 9:22 says, “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness.” It sounds brutal. Is it?
Maybe. But it’s also just.
Our hearts cry out for justice when wrong is done. And yet, when we’re the ones who’ve failed, we yearn for mercy. The cross is where God gives us both. “God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” —Romans 5:8
He stepped in.
Jesus didn’t die because He deserved it. He died because we couldn’t carry the weight. Only a sinless sacrifice—fully human to stand in our place, fully divine to carry infinite grace—could make things right again.
It was personal for Him.
Not a ceremony. Not a symbol. Love has a name, and that name bore thorns and nails and a silence we’ll never comprehend.
Once, in the tabernacle, priests would offer lambs day after day. But those animals were never enough. They were shadows pointing forward. Every drop of Israelite blood whispered promise and groaned with waiting. Until the cross.
A rugged hill on a Friday afternoon became the hinge of history. God didn’t skip justice. He satisfied it. At His own expense.
And now—it’s quiet. When the shouting ends. When shame revisits. When we look in the mirror and wonder if we’re too far gone.
There, in the stillness, we hear it.
“It is finished.”
Not because we earned it. Because He gave it.
I still think of that lamb sometimes. How it never knew its purpose, but gave it anyway. But Jesus—He knew.
He saw every broken vow, every angry word, every secret thought—and still said yes.
Maybe you’ve felt what I’ve felt: that ache for forgiveness, but the haunting worry that it can’t be that simple.
But grace isn’t cheap. It just wasn’t charged to your account.
He paid it in full.
And when the world tells you to save yourself, try harder, be better—remember the cross. Remember love is not proving worthiness. Love is Jesus dying so you could live.
Someone once said, “You are more sinful than you ever dared believe, and yet more loved than you ever dared hope.”
That’s the story of the cross.
That’s why Jesus had to die.
So you could come home.
So you could stay.
It was just a lamb.
That’s all Micah could think as he watched the priest carry it to the altar. The animal trembled under the weight of hands that had done this a hundred times before. The blade gleamed in the sun, and the blood—it came swiftly. A wriggling life turned still for the sins of others. Micah looked away, but the image stayed.
Years later, when Micah heard about a man named Jesus, that memory rose uninvited. Because that, too, had been just a man. Until He wasn’t.
“But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed.” —Isaiah 53:5
There’s a question whispered in hospital beds, behind ruined marriages, and after terrible news: Why did Jesus have to die?
It’s more than grief we feel—it’s guilt.
Somehow, deep down, we know. Things are broken between us and God. No matter how we decorate our lives with good intentions, something decays underneath. That’s sin—a word often softened or blurred, but Scripture doesn’t flinch. It stares us in the eye. “All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned—every one—to his own way…” (Isaiah 53:6). That’s the story of the world. Of me. Maybe of you too.
And sin always pulls something down with it.
Hebrews 9:22 says, “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness.” It sounds brutal. Is it?
Maybe. But it’s also just.
Our hearts cry out for justice when wrong is done. And yet, when we’re the ones who’ve failed, we yearn for mercy. The cross is where God gives us both. “God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” —Romans 5:8
He stepped in.
Jesus didn’t die because He deserved it. He died because we couldn’t carry the weight. Only a sinless sacrifice—fully human to stand in our place, fully divine to carry infinite grace—could make things right again.
It was personal for Him.
Not a ceremony. Not a symbol. Love has a name, and that name bore thorns and nails and a silence we’ll never comprehend.
Once, in the tabernacle, priests would offer lambs day after day. But those animals were never enough. They were shadows pointing forward. Every drop of Israelite blood whispered promise and groaned with waiting. Until the cross.
A rugged hill on a Friday afternoon became the hinge of history. God didn’t skip justice. He satisfied it. At His own expense.
And now—it’s quiet. When the shouting ends. When shame revisits. When we look in the mirror and wonder if we’re too far gone.
There, in the stillness, we hear it.
“It is finished.”
Not because we earned it. Because He gave it.
I still think of that lamb sometimes. How it never knew its purpose, but gave it anyway. But Jesus—He knew.
He saw every broken vow, every angry word, every secret thought—and still said yes.
Maybe you’ve felt what I’ve felt: that ache for forgiveness, but the haunting worry that it can’t be that simple.
But grace isn’t cheap. It just wasn’t charged to your account.
He paid it in full.
And when the world tells you to save yourself, try harder, be better—remember the cross. Remember love is not proving worthiness. Love is Jesus dying so you could live.
Someone once said, “You are more sinful than you ever dared believe, and yet more loved than you ever dared hope.”
That’s the story of the cross.
That’s why Jesus had to die.
So you could come home.
So you could stay.
