Death, the permanent silence. Few things in life are so permanent, so inevitable and incomprehensible.
Thinking about Jesus' death on our behalf. What was he feeling? Was he struggling with the same fear that I do whenever I think about dying? Did he doubt God's goodness in that moment, hanging on the cross, dehydrated, blood spilling out? Part of me wants to scream out at that moment and warn Him, "I'm not worth this. My selfish ways, my pride, my stinginess. Don't waste this on me."
But he whispers to me and tells me that it
"'I have come that they may have life and have it to the full.'" John 1:10