Today is Palm Sunday. It’s raining here, but it doesn’t stop my imagination from traveling back 2000 years to another Sunday when palms and other objects were used to hail the arrival of the King of Kings who came to set us free.
It never ceases to be incredible that in one week, Jesus is worshipped and welcomed and hailed with praise, then just days later, He is reviled, spit on, flogged and crucified.
One song says, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” I’ve pondered this question. Of course, I was not there physically. But He looked down the ages and saw me. He saw my need, my sin, my utter lostness. My helplessness.
He struggled in the Garden to go through with His Father’s Will so that I could be saved from a terrible inescapable eternity. My gratitude is boundless.
Another song rang out with, “I’m the one to blame, I caused all His pain—what kind of man is this that would take my punishment?” I don’t have an answer for that. I can’t comprehend that kind of love. The kind of love that not only takes my punishment, but assures eternity for me—at His cost. How can I not love Him back?
I could not let this day go by without acknowledging the immense importance of it to all of us.
I worship Jesus, I thank Him, I love Him. Let the palms swing. Let the praises ring.
Hosanna to the King!
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