“The Determined Christ: His Foes and His Friends And YOU
Crossing the Brook: Entering the Place of No Return
“When Jesus had spoken these words, he went forth with his disciples over the brook Cedron, where was a garden, into the which he entered, and his disciples.” —John 18:1
“Jesus therefore, knowing all things that should come upon him, went forth…” —John 18:4
“And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly…” —Luke 22:44
“And he went a little further…” —Matthew 26:39
The brook Cedron was no mighty river. It was narrow—often dry in summer—but in rainy seasons, it ran red with the blood of temple sacrifices from the altar above. That small stream had carried away the remnants of lambs, bulls, and goats for generations. And now the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world, steps across it.
Those sacrifices would soon be meaningless!
It was not a bridge of stone, nor a river of glory. It was a muddy, bloody brook—a line in the dirt where resolve would either carry a soul forward… or leave it behind.
This moment marks a divine threshold. Jesus had finished speaking the words of comfort to His disciples. He had prayed that great high priestly prayer in John 17. And now He rises. He does not wait for the soldiers to find Him. He goes forth.
The garden is not a trap. It is a destination. A place chosen. A place entered. A place of decision.
When Jesus crossed that brook, He crossed it knowing full well that on the other side stood betrayal. On the other side stood agony, and blood, and false accusations, and beatings, and mockery, and a borrowed tomb. Yet still He walked.
That is our Christ.
And Christian, that is your pattern.
Let every saint mark it well—when your faith is challenged, when your flesh protests, and all the world seems set against you, this is the brook you must cross. It will not be lovely. It will not be easy. But it will be necessary.
There comes a moment when the soul must say, “Though none go with me, yet will I follow.” When Christ leads, we must follow—even if the only light ahead is the flicker of the torch that Judas carries.
I remember not long ago, while sorting through the boxes left behind from my mother’s life, I came across a little note—just a scrap of paper from an old health plan pad. In her handwriting, it read:
“Greatest asset is a prayer partner!”
No fanfare. No signature. Just a simple truth buried in ink and time.
That note reminded me of the garden.
Because before the cross, before the crown, before the empty tomb—there was prayer. There was sorrow. There was companionship—and yet solitude. There was weeping. There was sweat like great drops of blood. And the greatest asset—even then—was communion with the Father. A prayer partner.
That note reminded me that while we often talk about victory, we rarely prepare for agony.
You don’t float into the will of God. You cross into it. You step into it. You bleed into it.
And here’s the challenge: once you cross, there is no turning back. In truth, there ought not be.
Christ didn’t peek across the brook and retreat. He didn’t weigh the odds and seek another option. He knew what lay ahead. And still—He went.
“He stedfastly set his face to go to Jerusalem.” —Luke 9:51
“For the joy that was set before him endured the cross…” —Hebrews 12:2
And so must we. We do not wander into holiness. We choose it. We enter the garden, not as spectators, but as followers of Christ. And from this moment, everything changes. The brook is behind us. The cross is ahead. And prayer must guide the in-between.
So I ask you—have you crossed your Cedron?
Is there a muddy, obscure place behind you, marking the moment when you said, “Lord, not my will, but Thine”?
That, dear friend, is where the journey truly begins.
II. The Harmony of Gethsemane: Prayer, Conflict, and Commitment
“Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder.” —Matthew 26:36
“And he taketh with him Peter and James and John, and began to be sore amazed, and to be very heavy.” —Mark 14:33
“And he was withdrawn from them about a stone’s cast, and kneeled down, and prayed.” —Luke 22:41
“He went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed…” —Matthew 26:39
The Gospels offer a fourfold harmony here—a sacred symphony in the darkness of the olive grove. Each voice adds depth. Each witness confirms. The Lord, heavy with sorrow, enters not just a garden, but a furnace.
It is not enough that He crossed Cedron. He must now go deeper. He leaves the eight. Then the three. Then He goes alone.
“He went a little further…” What a phrase.
That little phrase tells the story of our salvation. Jesus always goes a little further.
He goes further than religion. Further than comfort. Further than even the company of His closest friends. He presses on where no one else can go, into the shadows of Gethsemane, where the weight of the world’s sin begins to crush Him before the first whip ever strikes His back.
This is not just a moment of reflection. This is a moment of violent soul conflict. The war of wills. The weight of obedience. The agony of what must be done, clashing with the full humanity of the One who must do it.
“O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.” —Matthew 26:39
“And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” —Luke 22:44
This is where we discover what real prayer is.
Not words rehearsed. Not blessings counted. But a soul contorted in obedience. A heart that must yield or break.
We often want resurrection without Gethsemane. Power without pain. Clarity without surrender. But friend, there is no such path.
Every disciple must have their Gethsemane. That place where you leave behind what is easy. Where you part from the crowd. Where you stop asking God to change your circumstance and start pleading that He changes you.
It is the place where you learn the difference between saying, “Lord, use me,” and saying, “Lord, break me.”
“Not my will, but thine, be done.” —Luke 22:42
There’s a reason He told them, “Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation.” (Matthew 26:41). Because if you do not learn to pray here, you will not stand later.
Judas was coming. The soldiers were coming. The swords and the torches and the trials were already marching through the night. And Jesus says, “Watch… pray.”
But they slept.
And so we do.
We nap in the garden while eternity waits just beyond the trees.
What is your Gethsemane, dear Christian?
Is it your calling? A hard obedience you’re afraid to face? A relationship that must be surrendered? A bitterness you need to forgive? A ministry you’re scared to start—or scared to stay in?
You may feel as though you’re surrounded by darkness, unsure of the outcome, confused by what God is allowing. But I tell you—if you are in Gethsemane, you are in good company.
Jesus has been there. And He will meet you there again.
But understand this: once you go in, you do not come out the same. Gethsemane does not polish. It purifies. It crushes. It presses the oil from the olive.
“The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” —Matthew 26:41
This is where all true commitment is forged—not in the victory lap, but in the lonely night.
You must go a little further.
All in. Nothing left behind.
The Betrayal: The Familiar Kiss of the Faithless
“Judas also, which betrayed him, knew the place.” —John 18:2
“And while he yet spake, lo, Judas… drew near unto Jesus to kiss him.” —Luke 22:47
“Jesus said unto him, Friend, wherefore art thou come?” —Matthew 26:50
“Yea, mine own familiar friend… hath lifted up his heel against me.” —Psalm 41:9
It was not a stranger who betrayed Him. It was not a Roman, nor a Pharisee. It was one of His own.
Judas knew the place. That is one of the most haunting lines in all the Gospels. He didn’t stumble upon Jesus. He went right to Him. He had sat beside Him. Slept near Him. Heard Him pray. Watched Him heal. And still—he betrayed Him.
But worse still, he did it with a kiss.
Betrayal wrapped in affection.
A dagger hidden in a blessing.
It was the kiss of death, not in fury, but in familiarity. The kind of thing you never see coming—not because it’s hidden, but because it’s from someone you trusted.
“Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.” —Proverbs 27:6
There’s a special kind of pain in being betrayed by someone who called you “friend.” And Jesus—knowing all things—still calls him that.
“Friend, wherefore art thou come?”
That is not sarcasm. That is mercy. That is the last open door before Judas goes past the point of no return.
And how many of us have stood there?
With someone we once leaned on. Trusted. Loved. Only to realize they came into our garden not to pray with us, but to turn us in.
I remember the early days after I was saved. People meant well, but they didn’t understand. My mother and grandmother—two women I loved dearly—were concerned. Thought I might go off the deep end. Handle snakes. Holler in tongues. When I surrendered to preach, they said, “Well, maybe you’ll make a lot of money, like those guys on TV.”
They weren’t trying to hurt me. They were just confused by who I was becoming. They thought they still knew me. But I was changing.
And the truth is, when you start following Christ for real, not everyone’s going to celebrate. Some will question. Some will drift. And some, like Judas, will turn.
“He came unto his own, and his own received him not.” —John 1:11
“Suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth? I tell you, Nay; but rather division.” —Luke 12:51
Even Mary rebuked Him once (John 2:4). His own brothers didn’t believe in Him (John 7:5). The closer He drew to the cross, the lonelier He became.
Tonight, as I sit by the fire, I thought for a moment: Which coals am I at right now?
Am I warming my hands like Peter—watching from a distance, uneasy, unsure, ready to deny if the pressure rises?
Or am I back on the beach, later in the story, where the Lord waits with fresh fish and a question: “Lovest thou me?”
The answer, I think, is not in which fire I’m at—but in which direction I turn when I feel the heat.
You see, Peter’s story wasn’t over by the fire. And Judas’s betrayal didn’t have to be the end. But Peter wept—and came back. Judas despaired—and walked away.
You’ll know which kind of disciple you are not when you fail—but when you fall, and what you do next.
If you’ve ever been betrayed, Christ knows that pain.
If you’ve ever betrayed Him—He still calls you “Friend.”
And even now, He’s in the garden, waiting.
IV. The Power of His Presence
“Jesus saith unto them, I am he… As soon then as he had said unto them, I am he, they went backward, and fell to the ground.” —John 18:5–6
“Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?” —Matthew 26:53
“For this cause came I unto this hour.” —John 12:27
The torches flicker in the night. The soldiers step forward—armor clinking, swords drawn, their faces stern and sure. Behind them walks Judas, and before them stands the Son of God.
No longer weeping. No longer on His knees. Now, He stands.
“Whom seek ye?” He asks.
They answer, “Jesus of Nazareth.”
And then—two words. Not shouted. Not snarled. Just spoken with the full weight of divinity resting gently on each syllable:
“I am He.”
And they fall.
Not from fear. Not from confusion. But from power.
With just a breath of divine identity, the ground itself seems to reject them. Grown men. Armed soldiers. Leaders of Israel. Flattened by the echo of the same voice that once said, “Let there be light.”
In that moment, the veil lifts just enough to remind us—He was always in control.
At any point, He could have ended it. The One who healed blind men with a touch could have blinded the soldiers with a word. The One who stilled the storm with a rebuke could have swallowed them in an earthquake.
He could have summoned twelve legions of angels—seventy-two thousand heavenly warriors—and made Gethsemane a graveyard.
But He didn’t.
Because His power was not for escape—it was for purpose. His strength was not for show—it was for sacrifice.
He could have spoken them into oblivion. Instead, He allowed Himself to be bound.
“He humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.” —Philippians 2:8
Here is the staggering truth: The Creator stood before His creation—and allowed it to spit in His face.
The King stood before peasants—and allowed them to crown Him with thorns.
The Judge stood before the guilty—and allowed Himself to be condemned.
He didn’t just endure the betrayal, the arrest, the mockery—He walked into it. Willingly. Purposefully. And with authority that never once wavered.
There is a power in His restraint that terrifies the devils more than His miracles ever did.
You see, miracles show what He can do. But the cross shows what He will do—for us.
And what of us?
If we truly believed that kind of power stood behind us—walked before us—lived within us—what would we fear?
Are we falling back like the soldiers—only to rise again and bind Him with ropes?
Or are we bowing in reverence—rising in faith—walking forward in obedience?
The same voice that felled the soldiers still speaks. The same “I AM” still echoes in every believer’s heart.
“Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.” —Matthew 28:20
So, stand with Him. Not in fear. But in awe.
The world may try to bind the truth, but the truth can never be bound.
The enemy may press close with swords and lies, but the King still speaks.
And if He is still speaking—then so must we.
V. The Sword Fails: Peter’s Misguided Zeal
“Then Simon Peter having a sword drew it, and smote the high priest’s servant, and cut off his right ear.” —John 18:10
“Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.” —Matthew 26:52
“Then all the disciples forsook him, and fled.” —Matthew 26:56
Peter thought this was the moment. Finally, the revolution was here. The kingdom would come by force. Messiah would rise. Rome would fall.
So, he drew his sword—perhaps clumsily, perhaps with more heart than skill—and lashed out. The sound of steel. The cry of pain. A severed ear hits the dirt. Malchus stumbles.
But then Jesus speaks—not to the soldiers, not to Judas—but to Peter.
“Put up thy sword.”
Not draw it better. Not aim higher next time. Just put it away.
This is not that kind of kingdom.
Peter meant well. He truly did. He loved the Lord. But he still thought power meant force. That the answer to betrayal was blade. That the way forward was to strike back.
But force, even when wielded in love, still fails when it’s out of step with the will of God.
And when the sword failed… so did Peter’s courage.
Just a few verses later, we find him warming himself by the fire. Denying. Cursing. Afraid.
Because when your strength is in your sword, your failure will come swiftly.
And I’ll tell you what I thought of just now—as I sat by my own fire, tossing in old things to keep it going. I found a wooden step stool. Busted up. Half-rotted. Boar-eaten and cracked. Close to a hundred years old, but useless now.
I remembered using it when I was too little to climb onto the seat by myself. That little pull-out step was there when I couldn’t reach. When my feet dangled, and I needed help just to feel steady.
It was good for what it was, and for when it was. But now?
Too far gone to fix. Not strong enough to stand on. But just right to burn.
So, into the fire it went.
And as it cracked and hissed, I realized—Peter’s sword was like that step stool.
It worked when he didn’t know better. When his spiritual legs were still too short to understand grace. When he thought the kingdom needed his strength. When he couldn’t quite touch the ground of Calvary on his own.
But it couldn’t go with him into maturity. Into Pentecost. Into real faith.
Eventually, you’ve got to grow up.
You’ve got to put away the sword.
You’ve got to step down from the thing that once helped—but now only hinders.
“When I was a child, I spake as a child… but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” —1 Corinthians 13:11
Peter would fall. Deny. Curse. But he would also weep. And repent. And preach. And die with no sword in his hand, but the Word of God in his mouth.
We all have our step stools—our swords—our crutches of zeal. Things we trusted when we didn’t yet know what trust meant.
And there’s a time to thank them… and burn them.
So I ask: what are you still swinging that God’s asking you to lay down?
What defense, what self-effort, what flesh-powered habit are you still leaning on when Christ is calling you deeper?
Put it away.
He doesn’t need your sword. He needs your surrender.
VI. Religious Hypocrisy and Misapplied Truth
“Then led they Jesus from Caiaphas unto the hall of judgment… and they themselves went not into the judgment hall, lest they should be defiled; but that they might eat the passover.” —John 18:28
“Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.” —2 Timothy 3:5
“Let all things be done decently and in order.” —1 Corinthians 14:40
If ever there was a moment to see the spiritual blindness of man, it was here—when the men who plotted murder refused to step into a Gentile building… because they didn’t want to be ceremonially unclean.
It’s staggering.
They were escorting the sinless Son of God to be executed under false charges. But they were worried about religious contamination.
They were more afraid of touching Roman floor tiles than of shedding innocent blood.
They wanted clean hands—while they carried filthy hearts.
This is the nature of religion without redemption. It polishes the outside of the cup, but the inside is full of corruption. It knows the rules—but not the Ruler.
Caiaphas, the high priest, had once spoken true prophecy:
“It is expedient for us, that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not.” —John 11:50
He was right—and didn’t even know it. His mouth spoke truth while his heart plotted treason.
And that’s what we still see today. Scripture twisted. Holiness redefined. Power simulated.
The outward form of godliness with no inward fire of God.
There are those today who take the gifts of the Spirit and make a circus of them. Tongues become babble. Prophecy becomes performance. Worship becomes self-display. The Holy Ghost is treated not as a holy Person but a mystical force—a spiritual sugar high.
But the Bible says:
“The spirits of the prophets are subject to the prophets.” —1 Corinthians 14:32
“God is not the author of confusion, but of peace…” —1 Corinthians 14:33
There’s a reason Jesus never performed in the temple courts the way He did in the streets. He wasn’t interested in being a part of their religious theater.
He could see behind the robes. Behind the tassels. Behind the prayers too loud and the phylacteries too large. And He still sees.
He sees the pope blessing false gods and calling it unity.
He sees the prosperity preacher promising healings in exchange for seed money.
He sees the charismatic chaos where demons are blamed for every bad mood, and the name of Christ is merchandised like a trademark.
This was never His way.
And they’ll tell you—this is how we take the kingdom! This is how we win the culture!
But no… that’s what Peter thought, remember?
That the sword—or the stage—would bring in the kingdom.
And Jesus said, “Put it away.”
The Gospel was never meant to conquer by force or spectacle—but by truth, by humility, by the foolishness of preaching.
“For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God…” —2 Corinthians 10:4
Caiaphas wouldn’t enter the hall. Wouldn’t dirty his shoes. But his heart was already defiled beyond repair.
And so the ones with the loudest prayers… the longest robes… the best attendance… became the enemies of the very Messiah they claimed to serve.
So I ask: are we guarding appearances more than hearts?
Are we whitewashed tombs? Or living stones?
Have we traded the fire of Pentecost for the fog machine of performance?
Have we studied Scripture just enough to misuse it?
May God deliver us from religion without Christ. From form without power. From noise without truth.
Because when that kind of religion meets the real Jesus—it always seeks to silence Him.
VII. The Cross Still Divides
“Pilate therefore went out unto them, and said, What accusation bring ye against this man?” —John 18:29
“Jesus answered, My kingdom is not of this world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants fight… but now is my kingdom not from hence.” —John 18:36
“Thou couldest have no power at all against me, except it were given thee from above…” —John 19:11
“The word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword…” —Hebrews 4:12
The trial of Jesus before Pilate is not just a moment in Roman history—it’s a mirror.
Here stands the only righteous man ever to walk the earth—unarmed, unshielded, undefended—standing before a cynical, conflicted politician trying to appease a religious mob.
And the air is thick with tension.
Not from swords… but from the cross.
Because the cross—more than any sword—divides. It always has.
It divides light from darkness. Truth from compromise. The religious from the redeemed. The proud from the broken. The fearful from the faithful.
You can be near it and untouched. You can admire it and remain unchanged. You can wear it around your neck and still carry rebellion in your heart.
The cross is not a charm. It’s a cutting line.
Jesus says, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, then would my servants fight.”
He wasn’t saying His people would never take up arms in self-defense. He was saying the kingdom doesn’t advance by bloodshed—but by blood sacrifice.
He was telling Peter, and us, that the battle isn’t won by sharper swords—but by sharper obedience.
—Peter wasn’t scolded for having a sword. He was stopped from swinging it in error. There’s a time to protect your home from evil men. But this was not a robbery. This was redemption. This was the Lamb of God fulfilling His mission.
And that sword—if kept drawn—would have interrupted the very will of God.
How many today live by the sword? Not just with weapons—but with words?
How many preachers try to cut their way through opposition by force instead of by the Spirit?
How many believers try to fight culture with politics… or fight devils with pride… or fight battles God never told them to enter?
The Word of God is a sword—but it’s not a toy. It’s not a weapon of mass destruction—it’s a scalpel of divine precision.
It cuts away the lies. It divides the soul from the spirit. It exposes motives.
And that my friends That is why the cross is so offensive—because it does NOT leave anything hidden.
“And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him…” —Luke 23:33
“Cursed is every one that hangeth on a tree…” —Galatians 3:13
“We preach Christ crucified, unto the Jews a stumblingblock, and unto the Greeks foolishness.” —1 Corinthians 1:23
Even now, the world doesn’t know what to do with the cross.
The Jew still stumbles over it, seeking a sign while
the Gentile still mocks it, seeking wisdom, and
the religious? Watch what they call crucifixion Day… They still sanitize it, they sculpt it of Gold and silver making it shiny and clean.
What do disciples do though with that old rugged cross ?
whatever your sins are…
That cross is yours to carry.
The world is crucified to me, and I unto the world. That’s not just theology. That’s a trade. That’s a turning point.
You don’t walk away from the cross with clean hands.
You walk away with a crucified heart.
“But God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world.”
Galatians 6:14
Pilate tried to stand in the middle. But you can’t stand in the middle of a cross. It has no neutral ground.
He washed his hands. But you can’t wash off guilt with water.
And friend—neither can you.
If you’re at the cross today, you must decide. Not just what you believe—but what you’ll carry.
Will you bear the shame, the scorn, the reproach of Christ?
Or will you try to have a crown without a cross… a kingdom without a King?
There is no middle ground.
Because the cross still divides.
VIII. The Invitation: Are You All In?
“Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.” —Mark 8:34
“Come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord…” —2 Corinthians 6:17
“I beseech you… present your bodies a living sacrifice…” —Romans 12:1
The time for watching is over. The time for waiting is past.
You’ve seen the brook.
You’ve stepped into the garden.
You’ve heard the soldiers fall, and the sword fail.
You’ve felt the sting of betrayal, the chill of hypocrisy, and the weight of a crown that is not of this world.
Now—stand at the crossroads of the cross.
Not the shiny one. Not the silver one. Not the cross around your neck—but the one meant for your shoulders.
Christ bore His. Will you bear yours?
This is the point where every man must decide.
Are you just another face in the garden crowd?
Are you warming yourself by the fire, unsure whether to follow or flee?
Are you watching the trial, trying to blend in—trying not to be seen?
Or are you ready to follow Him—not in admiration, but in imitation?
The bridge is behind you. Burning.
The tomb lies ahead. Empty.
And in between is the only road ever stained with both blood and glory: the Via Dolorosa—the Way of the Cross.
You may fall. You may fail. But you must follow.
Because at the end of that path is the only One who has ever obeyed the Father perfectly. The only One who can say, “It is finished.” The only One who became sin for you, so that you might become righteous in Him.
“For he hath made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin; that we might be made the righteousness of God in him.” —2 Corinthians 5:21
You are not called to be perfect.
You are called to be crucified.
To die daily.
To walk humbly.
To carry boldly.
This world is not your home.
Your cross is not your burden—it is your badge.
And the One who calls you to carry it already carried all of it for you.
“And he bearing his cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull…” —John 19:17
“Who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross…” —Hebrews 12:2
And what is that joy?
You.
Just to be clear in this final thought in case for some reason there is my delusion that Salvation is anything but Grace and sovereign act of God. You are Not picking up a cross to be saved on.
You are not called to be perfect.
You are called to be crucified.
But let’s be clear—this cross is not a punishment. It is not a penance.
It is not the burden of guilt. It is not the load of sin.
Christ bore all of that—for you.
The cross you are called to carry is not an imitation of His—it is participation in Him.
It is His cross, laid upon your shoulders, not to crush you, but to conform you.
Not to prove your strength—but to display His life through you.
“I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me…” —Galatians 2:20
This is not a Catholic flagellation.
This is not religious theater.
This is not you dying to earn salvation—it is you dying to self so that His life may shine in a dying world.
You are not called to be a martyr for attention.
You are called to be a mirror of Christ.
And when the world sees you—bloodied but believing, hated but holding fast, broken but bearing light—they will ask what power lives within you.
And the answer will be one name: Jesus.
“Always bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our body.” —2 Corinthians 4:10
So pick it up—not to earn salvation, but because you already have it.
Pick it up—not to show your pain, but to show His power.
Pick it up—not as a shadow of the real thing, but as a living branch of the same tree.
Do you see your sin on his cross? Do you hear his voice as the word of God opens your ears ? Come unto me all ye that are heavy laden and I will give you rest.
Do you trust that this same Jesus we are talking about
Call Upon the Name of the Lord
And if today you know in your heart that you’ve never been saved—not truly, not personally, not scripturally—then hear this now:
“That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.” —Romans 10:9
“For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” —Romans 10:13
Not might be.
Not hopefully.
Shall be.
If the cross is calling you, if the Spirit is stirring you, then don’t delay. Don’t argue. Don’t clean yourself up first. Come as you are—ruined, ragged, real—and cry out to the One who already bore it all for you.
There is room at the cross for you.
There is blood on the mercy seat, still speaking.
There is life in the name of Jesus.
So right now, where you are—call on Him.
“Lord, I know I’m a sinner. I believe You died for me. I believe You rose again. I don’t just want religion—I want You. Save me.
That prayer won’t save you because I wrote it. But if you pray from the heart , if you believe ,his free gift of salvation shall be laid to your account.
Because the Lamb of God has already walked through the garden, stood through the trial, carried the cross, conquered the tomb, and now stands at the right hand of the Father… ready to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him.
Scripture References
John 18:1, 4, 6, 10-11, 28, 36; 19:11
Matthew 26:36-41, 50, 52-53
Luke 22:41-44, 47
Mark 8:34, 14:33
Psalm 41:9
Romans 3:3-4, 6:14, 10:9-13
1 Corinthians 1:23, 14:33, 14:40
2 Corinthians 4:10, 5:21, 6:17, 10:4
Galatians 2:20, 6:14
Ephesians 2:6
Philippians 2:8
Hebrews 4:12, 12:2
2 Timothy 3:5