The Crucifixion of the Cross

Revelation vii. 14 v.

“Washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”

Robes that are washed in blood would be expected to come out red; why should the result be so unlike the process? — Because the process of sacrifice which makes me pure must leave no trace of itself. The blood which washes out my stains would, if perpetuated, be itself a stain.

There can be no cross in my completed life. There is a shadow in its dawn, but not in its day. There is a struggle in faith; there is a struggle in hope; but there is no struggle in love. There are some cures which leave a scar; the disease is gone, but the red mark is left which tells of pain. Not all blood washes white. There are struggles in which I conquer, but from which I yet come down with the shrunk sinew; the battle is over, but, even in the daybreak, the wound remains. I have won the fight, but I have lost youth’s elastic spring; I halt upon my thigh. But the cross of Christ leaves on me no print of the nails. It heals its own scar. It dries its own blood. It wipes its own tears. It not only redeems, it restores my soul. It has no after-effects — no lameness, no sight of men like trees walking. There is no sense of languor, no feeling of soreness, no memory of pain. The cross of yesterday becomes the crown of to-day; the thorn of my winter is made the flower of my spring. The heart’s bleeding is staunched when law is one with love.

Son of Man, the shedding of Whose blood ended in perfect peace, let the way of Thy sacrifice be mine. Wash me in Thy blood into

Thy whiteness. Thou hast transformed the red blossom of Calvary into the white bloom of Olivet; make it so also with me. I would not have a thorn in my flesh as the price of my healing. I would not see the bloodstains on the ground when my wound has lost its danger. It is not enough to have my sin crucified; I must have my crucifixion crucified — the red must be washed white. My cross can cleanse my soul; but who shall cleanse my cross? Thou canst, immortal Love. Breathe on me, and my sacrifice shall die. Breathe on me, and I shall receive Thy spirit. Breathe on me, and Thy air shall become my air. It shall no longer stifle me; it shall no more be foreign to me; I shall live in it, move in it, have my being in it. My old law of sacrifice shall become my new life of joy. I shall wear my cross, Thy cross, like a flower; I shall cany Thy burden like a birthright. When I began my journey my garments were dyed with blood; when I reach the heights of Olivet I shall walk in white raiment.