Luke 23:13-43
This morning I’m struck by the image of Simon from Cyrene carrying the cross. I’ve always thought, “Why did they pull this man from the crowd and make him carry the cross for Jesus?” I know Jesus was severely beaten, and it’s understandable that he would have been too weak to carry the cross himself. It’s also not surprising that the Romans might have found it enjoyable to include people from the crowd in the execution of criminals. But this morning it strikes me that I am Simon. The cross was not really Jesus’ cross to bear. Even Pilate acknowledged twice in this passage that Jesus was innocent and undeserving of the death penalty. No, this cross did not belong to Jesus; it belonged to the people in the crowd, then and through all time. It belongs to Simon, and to you, and to me.
We each carry this cross, this burden of sin and shame. But the innocent and perfect Lamb of God bore it for us. The burden and the death sentence are rightly ours to bear, but Jesus died on our cross, in our place, to give us forgiveness, freedom, and new life. If we carry our cross to Jesus, he will take it and make it his own. As he died in our place, he asked forgiveness for us. And for all who turn to him as their Savior, he promises life with him in Paradise.
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This is one of my favorite hymns. It's been ringing in my ears on and off for weeks now. Perhaps you'll be blessed by it as well. The hymn is entitled, "My Song Is Love Unknown;" The words were apparently written by Samuel Crossman in 1664.
My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take, frail flesh and die?
He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.
Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.
Why, what hath my Lord done?
What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run,
He gave the blind their sight,
Sweet injuries! Yet they at these
Themselves displease, and ’gainst Him rise.
They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they saved,
The Prince of life they slay,
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes,
That He His foes from thence might free.
In life, no house, no home
My Lord on earth might have;
In death no friendly tomb
But what a stranger gave.
What may I say? Heav’n was His home;
But mine the tomb wherein He lay.
Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my Friend, in Whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.
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