When we peer deeply into the mirror of our souls, we are reminded of the pain we’ve caused others and suddenly reacquainted with the specter of remorse, which flows over us like a wave and eats away at the fabric of our bones. We have nowhere to hide, no rock to crawl under, and nowhere left to run. Our vanity informs us that we’ve given too much of ourselves, yet no one will acknowledge all the good we’ve done. How unfair, when our thoughts are full of our wonderful deeds? In truth, our hearts remind us of their narcissism every night, and deceive us again into believing we are all kindred spirits. In reality, how foolish we are and how weak of faith, to let our pride discount the knowledge that the blood of Jesus Christ graciously removed our sin? How can this be when He so selflessly ransomed His life for our own? We do it every time our pride chooses the guilt of our sin over the grace of our Lord. Contrary to what the world believes, our foolishness doesn't mean Jesus' death counted for nothing. Rather, it means we willfully refuse to live in the freedom of the grace His death provided.
The air was charged with the scent of blood and anticipation, as the wolves circled the arena above. Their mouths watered with unrestrained joy. Soon a haggard man was led toward the rough hewn wood of the whipping post. He had been beaten severely and was bloody, helpless, and naked. His wrists were chained to either side of the short stubby arms of the main post with irons. His eyes were closed and His head was raised up toward heaven. His face was without any expression of fear and He awaited His punishment in silence. Very quickly, the soldier charged with the duty swung a flagrum above his head and went to work. Only a few feet above, the wolves were yelping and nipping in excitement as the first blow landed on the man's right shoulder.
Suddenly, a huge chunk of flesh and blood spewed forth from the jagged wound, cascading through the air, and landing with faint patters in the hot, dry sand. The next blow came in quick succession and landed squarely in the middle of the man’s back with identical results. The visceral mixture of sweat and blood covered the accused and the scourger alike. And as the flagrum found its rhythm, the wolves, who peered down from above, anticipated the sound of the next delicious impact. Curiously, in the end, the soldier who inflicted the wounds thought they appeared as stripes across the man’s back.