Birth to us means a new beginning,
But to Him, birth meant a welcome into the battlefield,
So how does a baby fight?
Can he raise a standard against his enemy?
Or stand inch by inch to wield his javelin and arrows?
When he stepped out, he was always embattled,
But He managed a perfect childhood,
Graduated into faultless manhood,
Conducted a holy ministry,
And qualified to preserve Himself an unblemished sacrifice.
The enemy was upon his way with as powerful temptation as His unblemished soul was,
The ephemerals and follies that we are easily swayed with though offered in bits and pieces,
He had offered as one whole bundle,
But keeping His focus on the trophy of his fidelity,
All these tempting offers fell into nothingness,
Yet this didn’t win Him the battle,
He withstood the rejection of the people He was seeking to save,
He stood the unbelief of the inner cycle,
Yet He didn’t win the battle yet.
When He got Himself into the final phase,
Being hurried from one corrupt tribunal to another,
Jeered by mean men and a demon-thronged mob,
Harassed endlessly by ill-mannered soldiers,
Being numbered with renegades,
Crucified, the cross roughly dropped into the hole to make keen His pain and agony,
Yet He never said nor mumbled any word,
But the battle was not won still.
When in the eyes of careless sinners and deluded clergy,
He couldn’t save Himself and sustained a death wound,
He won the Battle.
The death wound, an apparent mark of His defeat,
Was the mark of His Victory.
Because of His death wound:
The battle is won, and Death is in Trouble,
The devil is moved to insomnia and painful forebodings of his future,
No Sinner needs to Die,
He has earned a right to represent me before the throne of God,
Victory is coming,
So hold on, lift up your heads for our redemption Draweth Nigh.
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