The king’s enemies gathered at the gates, their wicked hostility casting an ever-growing shadow over the kingdom he served. Though he had commanded armies and conquered the fiercest of forces, the ravenous hunger of evil rabidly encircled him to devour his light.

The oppression of weakness bore down on him. He felt trapped by his powerlessness as an existential claustrophobia descended. The walls of time were closing in, squeezing out the precious few drops of life remaining. Emptied, there was nothing he could do.

“He saved others,” the wolves mocked, “let him now save himself if he is the son of God.” Salvation? Ha! Just a week earlier he’d ridden into town on a wave of fanfare. He promised so much. Now look at him. Hanging limp on a cross. A king? No thanks.

If only they understood. If only they could see that on this cross, he represented their very lives. Destined for death. No amount of muscle or might would save them from their ultimate plight. The king knew his only hope rested on the intervention of God, his rock. He did not look to the world’s resources for help. He looked to the Most Holy Place. If only they would look on him and see that it is the Lord who is the strength of his people, and a fortress of salvation for his anointed one.

Without the Lord, they could have all the strength in the world, and still have no strength at all. They could gain the world and have absolutely nothing. The king’s faithfulness to death, even death on a cross, proved his rule was entirely pure. Christ’s surrender gives us our salvation. Our surrender gives us his strength.