“Take this, all of you, and drink from it: this is my blood which was poured out for you.”
You stand there Jesus, and Your hands are reaching up towards Your Father who is in Heaven. I don’t understand it, why You would take the cup for me. We both know its contents… those flakes of gold from the calf idol Moses ground into powder still swirl about in this deadly swill. You have turned the water into blood, rather than wine, because it is the fluid of life: but one sip of this cup, and perhaps all the life will flee out of me. Why would You do it, Jesus? You are not compelled to death by hemlock through any sins You have done, any offenses You have committed… because there are none to be found under Your name. Yet, You are still reaching into Heaven, and I think You are holding a chalice.
Or maybe it’s a star; the holy grail? Something bright and shining beyond the tolerance of my eyes half emerges out of Heaven: it’s alive and burning in Your hands. I think I have stepped back into time for a few moments… because are You whispering something, are Your hands burning around that cup, are those tears in Your eyes and blood on Your brow? You bid the Father to take this cup from You, but not Your will, of course not, You voluntarily submit Yourself to my painful torment. Isaiah couldn’t bear a burning coal on his tongue without it consuming obvious sins. Jesus, You had none to consume, You were Holy in man nature… were You still burned or did it consume You?
I think I see, now, whats really in that cup: not dust or water, wine or blood, but words, a fountain of words—angry and sad, disappointed, just, Holy… words of the wrath of the Lord: this is that scared vessel which will be divided into seven bowls and poured over the earth in its final days. And here You stand, Jesus my Savior, holding up this burning cup within Your hands. Its awful to watch, I don’t understand how such a man as You could take my rightful cup and love me still. Jesus, put it down, don’t drink from it, I am not worthy. You hear the cry of my heart… You see my distress and unsurity. My sin offering, Jesus, I love You, why are You doing this for me? How can You love me too, like this?
I see You standing now, You’re glowing like the grail… did my tears blind my eyes, did I miss something? There are still words within the cup, but they are dissolving into the blood that You poured in. Blood, blood, so much blood from Your hands, feet, side, and head. Your wounds are fresh and open still… how long has it been, 3 days? But no more life must flow out of You, no more blood is there to be spilt. You wounded Yourself for my transgression and iniquity; the wounds which perfected Your soul and made You immortal brought me peace. So why do I languish under torment? Why is there no peace or rest within my soul? Jesus, You are offering the cup back to me… wrath, Jesus, didn’t You bear all the wrath?
Your smile reassures me, I pray I am not deceived. It’s a bitter cup I drink from…I can find no sweetness in it. You continue to smile, there’s more still. I cannot drink such a full cup, I must stop for some time… Jesus, help me drink of You… for You are the fountain of life… must I too die to taste Your sweetness?
