Holy Week

I haven't made much progress on my purse lately. I did complete two pieces for the church gallery for Holy Week. We are having something similar to the Stations of the Cross. I have found it hard to take good pictures of the paintings because of the glare from either a flash or other light source, but here's the best I have, including the "inspirations" that will be posted with each piece. I also have problems with the canvases appearing distorted, no matter where I seem to stand or the angle. And, yes, there is also a spelling mistake on Censored - I didn't double check that my new toy (a label maker) had punched all the letters.

Pass Over

In thinking about Passover, I wondered anew at the significance of the lamb’s blood on the doorposts. When God saw the blood, he passed over those homes. It wasn’t that the families in those homes were nicer, richer, more intelligent or even more moral. The only thing that mattered was the blood.

In my life, I am sometimes tempted to believe that Bible reading, prayer and church attendance put me in better standing with God. Perhaps if I give all I have to the poor or volunteer regularly at the church. But the only thing that matters is whether the doorposts of my heart are covered by the blood of Jesus.

CENSORED

Not by the church, but by the artist.

An accurate depiction of Christ’s suffering contains objectionable material: Intense, Graphic Violence, Blood and Gore, plus Nudity. Not my style at all.

Plus, I am squeamish. I couldn’t watch such inhumane torture of anyone. But my sinless, loving Savior taking those lashes for me... I cannot fathom. I don’t want to imagine. Roman torture was brutal; shards of metal, bone and glass ripped at the flesh. And those thorns! Injury on top of insults for our King.

All for me. I can’t bear to watch.

O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded with thorns Thy only crown,
How art Thou pale with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish which once was bright as morn!

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered was all for sinner’s gain:
Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ‘Tis I deserve Thy place;
Lord on me with Thy favor, vauch-safe to me Thy grace.

What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever! and, should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee!