Was it the nails that pierced his wrists and feet, or maybe the spear that punctured his side? Was it the cruel words that echoed in his ears, their shouts to crucify, crucify? Maybe it was his gasping for breath, or his thirst, or his breaking heart. Whichever of these it may have been, I’m pretty certain that I played a part in why someone so innocent, so good, so young had to die? I am quite sure that I know why. They scourged him and mocked him and stripped this man. I looked away, only to see his blood on my hands. Naked and bleeding and paraded by men. He carried the cross. He buried my sin. As I look more closely, I finally see. It’s not what really killed Jesus, but who? It was me.
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Chuck Kralik, Author 
Thats deep… never though of it! But its true, and sad
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Hi, Federico. Thank you so much for visiting my site and commenting! Best wishes.
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Thank you Chuck
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Thanks for reading, Janet!
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Great words.
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Amen!
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Well said and so true of each of us. I can remember the time I realized it was my sin that put Christ on the cross. I was devastated. But it was a good devestation as it humbled me to a deeper place of repentance.
Great post!
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Thanks so much, Marcie, for reading my post and commenting!
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