He drank the cup filled with God’s wrath.
He drank it utterly dry
to the very last drop.

Yet I continue to come back to this ancient chalice,
heavy gold,
etched with scenes of battle, bloodshed, deceit, bitterness, gall, gnashing teeth of anger,
those scenes now covered by the blood of Jesus.

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I come back to this cup,
I try to lift it,
I struggle with all my might,
I lift it,
I finally lift it
to my lips,
trying to catch a taste of the wrath,
of the condemnation for my sin,
to further quench my pungent desire to make my sin right by my own hand.
Mine. Mine. Mine.

Yet the hands of torn flesh, the hands of God,
who put on my flesh, my sin, my wretchedness.
Those hands take that
cup from my weak and trembling hands.

Those hands,
mighty hands,
lift the chalice
as a feather
and turn it upside down to show me,
ever so gently,
there is nothing left to drink.

Empty cup.
Empty tomb.
Empty plan of mine.
No wrath, no condemnation, no need to lift it again.

It is finished, my child.
It is finished, he says,
heart-wrenching love mingled with fierce adamancy in his deep beautiful eyes.
It is finished.

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