His Blood Flowed Down

He stood before the soldiers, a king draped in royal purple. He was crowned with a circlet of thorns woven together, and pressed into His brow: Sharp, piercing, cruel thorns. And His blood flowed down. Mocking soldiers played their part well. Bowing low with sneering faces then rising up with wooden staff they struck Him, over and over and over again. The king said not a word. They spat on Him and laughed. The king remained silent. No condemnation escaped His battered lips. He was brought before His subjects, beaten, bruised, but not broken. Not defeated. Crucify Him! Crucify Him!, His subjects shouted as they rejected Him. So He was stripped of His robe, nailed to a crude wooden cross, where His blood flowed down. "Father, forgive them!", He cried. "They don't know what they are doing." They didn't know who He was. They didn't know that He had come to teach them the path to God. They didn't know that it was for their sin He was dying. They didn't know that He was the one they had been waiting for: their Messiah, Deliverer, King. They didn't know how much He loved them as His blood flowed down.