The Hands That Healed

They cheered His name in the streets, palms waving, voices rising- Hosanna, they cried, like they meant it. Like they saw something holy. Like they saw at all. But the same hands that lifted the broken, the same hands that touched the untouchable, that wrote mercy in the dirt, were stretched wide, nailed tight- a love letter sealed in blood. "The hands that healed the blind were pierced by those who refused to see" Tell me, what kind of blindness does it take to spit in the face of salvation? To trade a Savior for silver? To drive nails through divinity and call it justice? He wept for them- for the ones who cursed Him as He bled, for the ones who hammered truth into wood, for the ones who walked away untouched, still blind. And yet, even from the cross, He whispered grace. Even as they gambled for His last breath, He gave them love they did not deserve. Tell me, have we changed? Do we not still crucify kindness? Do we not still turn from the hands that would heal us if only we reached back? The hands that healed the blind were pierced by those who refused to see. And I wonder, if He stood before us now, would we see Him? Or would we do it all again?