Melissa takes up the pen in this post,
This year for the first time since I was a girl, I took part in a Good Friday Service. It focused on the Cross, that cruel symbol of a hideous death that my Lord Jesus endured for me. I found myself filled with joy all day, just thinking about it. Excitement. It seems strange to even put that into words.
I steel myself when I deal with mousetraps or have to kill a wasp in the kids' bedroom window. I cry through the biographies I read to my kids, full of suffering of every kind which ordinary men and women endure in all ages. So what joy is there in thinking on the torture and death of One Who, of all men who ever lived, didn't deserve to die?