His death...my birth!

Today, I add a year.

As callous men descended on him with whips and clubs, urging him to make that suicidal plunge on Golgotha’s lonely path, mother felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen. The life in her womb seems to leap for joy. No doubt, her time has come.

Crestfallen, his frail frame shuddered under the weight of the cross as balls of crimson sweat trickles from his wounds, yet; they led him on, lashing out on his battered skin. He trudged on, not for the cruel kisses of their whips or the threat of imminent death but for the joy that lies ahead.

In that symbolic room marked “labour”, there where life is given and sometimes taken, mother lay toiling. She clenched pains in her teeth and drank patience from the midwives constant jibes. As her body ruptured in pain and her strength seemed to drain, she fought tenaciously, not for her life but the life of the one inside of her. She endured the perpetual agony of labour, knowing that a bundle of joy awaits her.

On Golgotha, he crumbled. Merciless men drove nails through the palm of his hands and feet, amused as he writhe in pain. Crucified, blood trickled down the cross and with each drip, life is drained. Yet, with his dying breath he prayed for his murderers and declared the work of redemption completed.

In that same instance, amidst the growing pain, mother gave that one final push and a new life was brought forth!

In his death, we find life everlasting.

Tear drops from a weary eye,

cease in its drizzling track;

faltering hope from a dying heart,

learn to soar in the morning breeze

when God's love, my broken heart finds.