The Cost of Christ
If I count the cost, I must first look to the cross, carried to a hill of death so that a life anew may begin.
I must look at His feet, the spikes driven deep, his hands bearing the weight of our brokenness and his broken body.
I must look at his thorny crown, blood streaming down, staining the temple of the cornerstone whom we rejected.
I must look to his back, staining rough hewn wood black, flayed and betrayed by those whom he came to save.
I must look to his side, the gaping hole spread wide, blood and living water flowing in rivulets for an unworthy world
I must look to his words, grace in the face of hate, love in spite of scorn, and forgiveness that tore the temple curtain and the victory away from death.
He paid my debts, but this path is not without cost. For if I truly follow Him, I must take up my cross.
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