“By his wounds we are healed.” — Isaiah 53:5

I woke up this morning with a headache.

I reached for the medicine cabinet, swallowed two pills with water, and went on with my morning. But sitting at my kitchen table, a single thought stopped me cold:

HE WORE A CROWN OF THORNS.

He had no medicine cabinet. No soft hand to soothe His brow. Sharp wooden spikes were driven into His scalp, and blood ran down His face. He just sat in the dirt, breathing through the pain, and wore it. For me.

And my little headache felt very small.

~ ~ ~

My lower back hurts today. I shifted stiffly in my chair, stretched, and caught myself sighing under my breath.

HIS BACK WAS TORN OPEN.

Before they nailed Him to the tree, they stripped Him and whipped Him until His skin was shredded to the muscle. Then they laid a heavy wooden beam across those open wounds and told Him to walk.

He walked. Because He wasn’t finished loving me yet.

~ ~ ~

My hands are stiff with arthritis today. My feet throb from standing. I complain about getting old. I kick off my shoes and look for comfort.

HIS HANDS. HIS FEET.

Those same hands that wiped tears from weeping eyes were stretched flat against rough wood. Those feet that walked dusty roads to search for broken people were pinned to a post. Heavy iron nails crushed through flesh and bone.

Every single breath He took required Him to push His body weight up on those nails. Hours of it. And He held still — not because iron had the power to hold the Creator of the universe, but because His love for me held Him there.

~ ~ ~

I get thirsty, walk to the sink, and pour a cold glass of water without a second thought.

ON THE CROSS, HIS THROAT WAS DRY AS DUST.

He whispered, “I thirst,” and they offered Him sour vinegar on a dirty sponge. He swallowed the bitterness so I would never have to thirst again.

~ ~ ~

When I get chilly, I pull a soft blanket around my shoulders.

THEY STRIPPED HIM BARE.

He hung shivering in the cold wind, bleeding before a laughing crowd, while soldiers rolled dice for His only shirt. He let them take His dignity so I could be clothed in His grace.

~ ~ ~

What are my aches compared to this?

My headache, my back, my hands, my feet — they are tiny, fleeting blips in a short life.

He didn’t suffer because He was helpless. He could have called a thousand angels. He could have stepped off that cross and left me to face my own sin.

But He stayed. He let the hammer fall.

He did it because when He looked through the centuries, through all the noise of this world — He saw my face. And He decided that eternity without me was something He couldn’t bear.

The next time my body hurts, I don’t want to complain. I want to stop.

I want my aches to remind me of His love. I want to fall on my knees, thank Him for every drop of blood, and remember:

HE FELT IT ALL SO THAT MY SUFFERING WOULD NEVER BE THE END OF THE STORY.