Healed by Wounds

Healed by Wounds

For years I hated You. I despised Your name, refused even say Your name unless it was a curse. My sword held high, I attacked You and anyone who defended You. Family or friend, neither mattered if they stood up for You. I cut relationships, slashed familial bonds just to attack You. In my childish anger, I never noticed Your response to my strikes; every time, each instance You had Your hand reached out to reconcile.
Bah! What pitiful and weak god would try to reconnect with someone who vowed to hate Him?! My brain couldn’t comprehend the depth of that type of strength, so I attacked again. Swings and jabs, I called You bigoted, useless, and ancient; my rancor knew no limits and I now expanded my contempt to whole churches and congregations. Weak-willed and minded people, is what I would yell and sneer, thrusting my sword at their hearts. Still You showed no wounds, no evidence of my stabs and thrusts.
Frustrated I turned to the most extreme thing I could do. “You call Yourself the Creator of life?! Well watch me die,” I bellowed to the heavens. Alas, this failed too! My final attempt to kill You had made me severely wound myself. Crippled and in anguish, my screams of rage slowed until only a quiet whimper remained. Suddenly I saw Your hand reaching to me, on the forearm a long ugly scar. That couldn’t be from me, it was much too old; despite all those years of attacking You, suddenly I didn’t want You to be hurt. With a shock, I realized I didn’t want to be the one who hurt You either.
As I slowly began to reach out my hand to Yours, my wound gave a nasty sharp spasm. Looking down I gasped; stabs, jabs, and thrusts from a sword were all over me. How could this be? Every cut, every swing I aimed at You had injured me. My actions of hate aimed at You were killing me! In despair, I lunged and grasped Your hand, even though I just knew You would likely fling me away. A drop of blood hit me and then another, falling neatly into my wounds. I looked for its source; with a jolt I realized Your scar had opened, Your blood falling into my lacerations. What is this?! Where each drop fell, the cuts began to heal; the trauma I inflicted on myself being repaired by Yours.
You weren’t weak at all! Oh the strength and control You must have, waiting for just this moment! You’re the God who is truly slow to anger and quick to reconciliation. It’s not weakness to wait for Your wayward, tantrum-throwing children to reach for You. How awful it must have been for You to not reach down and forcibly stop me from the harm I was inflicting to myself. Yet You did. With fortitude and love, You waited until I was ready; until I had finally had enough of me and was ready for You. Instead of hating me back, You showed Your love by opening Your own scars to heal me. Expecting Your rejection, I found only true acceptance when I grabbed Your hand and You pulled me into Your arms.