Endured
VI. Endured
Shame drove them further east,
and sorrow followed.
Now the language of the image bearers
is a chorus of Lamentations—
dust on the head,
tears in the night,
bitterness in the mouth,
the soul weighed down within.
We became a people
who remember ruin.
A people
who know affliction.
A people
who sit in despair
and feel the burden
of what sin has done.
But in the middle of the darkness,
hope speaks out.
Yet this I call to mind—
and therefore I have hope:
the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases.
His mercies never come to an end.
They are new every morning.
And that hope has a name.
Jesus.
Before he came,
death reigned.
Man wandered east of Eden
through a savage wilderness.
Days of sore distress.
Groaning beneath the load.
Poor and wretched.
Weak and wounded.
Sick and sore.
Bruised and broken by the fall.
Separated by walls too high to climb.
Giving worship to vain idols.
Ruled by appetites that never satisfy.
Conscience heavy.
Shame clinging.
Running hard toward the death we deserved.
Then—
he came.
Not avoiding our misery,
but entering it.
Not staying far off,
but drawing near.
The Incarnate God.
Full of pity, joined with power.
The Blessed One
consenting to become poor for us.
The Holy One
stepping into the dwelling place of the curse.
The Lord of glory
born among the shameful,
walking among the wounded,
standing with the outcast,
bearing the sorrow of the world.
Then—
with grief and shame weighed down,
scornfully surrounded,
thorns his only crown,
he endured the cross.
He shunned not suffering,
shame,
or loss.
He bowed his humble head to mortal pain.
He became acquainted with grief.
A man of sorrows.
Anxieties, hunger, thirst, wounds, stripes, agony, bloodshed, a cursed death—
all of it poured upon him.
My transgression was the cause,
while your pain was the deadly consequence.
What thou, my Lord, hast suffered
was all for sinners’ gain.
He stood condemned in our place.
The just for the unjust.
The earth’s great curse fell on his head.
The scarlet robe.
The crown of thorns.
The mocking.
The blows.
The forsakenness.
The offended judge’s indignation.
The sword of justice was raised against him.
He became like us,
and then died for us.
He bore the shameful cross
so the shameful ones
might be welcomed home.
And this
is the work of God:
that you believe in him.
That you look to Jesus.
That you do not trust your tears,
your fitness,
your effort,
your promises to improve.
Let not conscience make you linger,
nor of fitness fondly dream.
All the fitness he requires
is to feel your need of him.
If you tarry till you’re better,
you will never come at all.
Because if you believe in him—
him who endured the cross,
despising the shame—
then you are no longer named
by your uncleanness,
your failure,
your disgrace.
You are given the right
to be called a child of God.
You are clothed with white clothes.
Honored, not humiliated.
Welcomed, not cast out.
Robed, not in your glory, but in his.
Are you tired
of trying to outlive your shame?
Tired of managing the image,
Tired curating the group approved version of yourself?
Are you looking for
healing for what is cracked inside?
Peace for the restless place within?
Rest for your exhausted soul?
Then come to Jesus tonight.
Lay Your Shame Down.
And Be Clothed By Him.
Not once you’ve cleaned yourself up.
Not once you’ve figured everything out.
Not once you feel more spiritual,
more stable,
more worthy.
Come now.
Poor and wretched,
weak and wounded,
bruised and broken by the fall—
come.
Without money.
Without pretending.
Without polishing the story.
Without delay.
Bring the shame.
Bring the regret.
Bring the weariness.
Bring the mess you have been trying to hide.
To the Cross. To Jesus.
Come to Jesus Christ and rest.
Because none but Jesus
can bring honor to shame.
