It was a day of days. It was extraordinary encased in the common place. He was not the first to be crucified, but he was the only of his kind to die. Many innocent have tasted an unjust death, but he was the only one to die unjustly who had created justice. Others had suffered humiliation and shame, but only he experienced the lofty heights of glory before the mockery and abuse of the treacherous. Others had clung to the fading hopes of reprieve and vindication, but without him and the day of days, genuine hope of freedom could never exist.
It was a day of miracles. They were not of the sort that brought food to the masses or healing to the afflicted. Those are the miracles of a lesser sort; that bring temporary relief to temporary sufferings and anxieties. On this day the miracles were more terrible, more substantial, eternal. They were the miracles of a grievous injustice, a willful sacrifice. It was the miracle of a dying God. A miracle grounded not in the human attempt to glorify itself over its creator but a creator that embraced shame and glorified weakness. It was a miracle that condemned the wisdom of humanity through the foolishness of humility.
It was a day of days. A day that saw the rise and fall of many. Of shame and glory. Of weakness and power; humility and pride. Of everlasting hope and peace. It was a day that transformed the world. A day that continues to shape the destiny of humanity. It was the day of the crucified God.