Volume I, Issue 1           Monday, August 4th, 2003           Florida State University - Panama Student E-Zine


Why?

by Michael Gavin

Have you ever wondered why we do what we do

Follow what we knew,

And yet and still we follow what we know now

Instead of Who.

Shouldn’t we follow Who we know?

Unless of course we don’t know Him.

Then we’d be left to follow what?

Instead of Him…come again?

We follow rules and traditions and they all fine,

But we really missin’ out on what it’s all about.

The humble Savior, carried His own cross,

Now that’s slave labor.

That’s the modern day equivalent to diggin’ your own grave

And then cleaning the gun that’s gonna shoot you,

All the while knowing it’s soon gonna run through you

And do you much harm.

Could we do that?

Calmly prepare for our own death?

Or would we buck and fight ‘til we got struck,

Just to say we fought so tough.

Well what if Jesus bucked?

Looked us each in the face and told us we weren’t worth it,

We didn’t deserve it.

Would He be lying, falsely testifying?

No, not at all.

And we’d be crying,

Trying to find mercy in a merciless heart.

I’m glad Jesus didn’t play that part.

I’m glad He submitted, so we could be acquitted.

Did He think of me when they were spittin’ and kickin’,

Whippin’ 'til His back was splittin’?

No time for lickin’ wounds,

Soon a heavy, rugged cross with splinters enters the room,

As crucifixion looms.

All this for lowly sinners.

Now carry it.

His body shivers from the pain they deliver.

Dragging footsteps follow.

Agony and suffering engulf His soul.

He collapses, then some poor chap they grasp

And force to carry the cross.

Was that relief for Him?

No, it gets worse.

Sun, hot enough to make you curse.

They fix the cross in the ground.

He looks around.

Friends, disciples, nowhere to be found.

Just a loyal few scattered about,

Helpless, among angry faces screaming “Crucify Him!” no doubt,

And they proceeded to.

Next the sounds of hammering,

Vibrations dulled by His flesh.

Torture beyond any threshold imaginable.

Iron spikes, a crown of thorns, mockery,

A King?

This man?

How laughable!

Flesh rips, as He moans in torment.

The Heaven Sent treated like He’s not worth a cent.

Intention to kill Him won’t relent.

As they raise Him up like a human tent,

Anguish intensifies throughout His frame.

Only thing holding Him up is pain.

Each breath grows more difficult,

Pushing off the single nail through His feet,

Or pulling up using the daggers piercing His wrists,

The trinity complete.

Imagine this, death with a diabolical twist.

Slowly suffocating.

Even to breathe is pain beyond excruciating,

As death is waiting.

With every prophecy fulfilled, in total submission to God’s will.

Gave up His Spirit, side pierced as blood and water spilled.

Born to be killed,

For those with contempt in their eyes.

Born to die for you and I.

Now the question is:

Lord, why?

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