Sunday, April 8, 2012

A Stained Heart

I spilled the juice.  I have never spilled the juice.  Yet, as I sat there trying to keep my kids from making it a big deal, my heart felt that little pull that means stop and think.  The juice ran off my fingers and stained the edge of my skirt.  My hand felt sticky.  It was just juice, nothing else, but I could not help but remember that this juice represented the blood of my Savior. 
I was not at the cross, but I may as well have been.  My sins were behind the nails and sword that spilled Christ’s blood.  The soldiers’ hands were stained with his precious blood.  As Joseph took Christ’s bloody body from the cross his hands were covered with the blood that seeped from a body beaten and bruised, torn and disfigured for the sake of the world. 
My juiced stained hands were a picture of my blood stained heart. 

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