My job is in metalworking, and we begin working early in the day. My boss is a kind man, but usually saves the best jobs for himself. All day today I worked the boring job of forming nails out of iron bars. Get the fires burning hot enough, lay the bar inside until it is malleable, carefully take it out and hammer two sides so that it begins to point. Then continue these actions until the nail has four sides tapered down- at the specific size needed- into a point. After that, the nail is separated from the bar, put in a vice, and the nail head is hammered down.
Today I am making five inch and seven inch nails. I don't understand what the rush is about, but the boss seems stressed over these nails. Earlier, he was constantly looking over my shoulders to ensure they were done properly, but now he sees my work is fine and is relieved. After a while, it becomes a rhythmic, relaxing process that I begin to enjoy.
Whistling a tune aloud, I continue long into the day with only a couple of breaks, and that is when he asks me to work until the sunset as he has to finish his other jobs but the job I am doing is important. This is fine with me because as I work I think about my life and how good it is. My health is fine as my wife's and children, I have a good job, an adequate house, and income to meet out needs. The government takes to much in taxes, but isn't that always the case? Still, life is good.
When I finally finish, satisfied in a quality job, he tells me to come in early because he needs me to deliver them. He says the customer is in the next town over, and I'll have to deliver them before six. Next morning I load them up on the cart and I begin my journey. Riding into the cool morning, I ponder the wonders of working with metal, forming it into necessary items useful in society. I am proud of my work, and to be a metal worker. The ride is relaxing after a hard day's work.
With half an hour of delivery time, I arrive in the town which seems to be riddled in crowds, conflict, confusion, and general craziness. People are angry, some are sad, while others are rejoicing in what is happening, but no one seems to be able to explain exactly what that is. I arrive at the destination only to be told I need to go elsewhere, outside the town. Once there, I give the nails to the man in charge and he pays me for them. Finally, I can take a break and I walk up a hill to see what the commotion is all about.
At the top is a most gruesome sight- there are criminals being put to death, one after another. Some stand nearby weeping that their loved one is about to be killed, though they wouldn't be there if they were innocent, would they? Then I look into the face of the one they cry for, who is laying on the ground on a beam, and his eyes do not look like a bad man. They seem to stare into my soul and a fire burns in my heart. There is something different about him.
Who is he? What did he do? I hear rumors that he did nothing but good to the people, that he had compassion, and did impossible things, but who can believe all that? Why would they sentence a man like that to death?
I see my beautiful nails handed to a soldier who takes one of the five inch nails and pounds it into the suffering man's arms. Then he takes another and pounds it into the other arm. The man cries out as my beautiful, handmade iron nails are driven through his flesh into the wood. I watch his blood ooze from his new wounds. My nails did that! They lift him up until the beam hangs at the top of a pole, and they take my seven inch nail to pound it into his feet, and the agony is clear upon his face.
Oh, how I wish I'd never climbed this hill!
Astonishing words come from his mouth, words of forgiveness to those who put him in this situation, but I think he looks at me; does he know the nails that pierced his arms and feet are mine? Is he forgiving me for my part in his coming death? Surely I feel responsible just as if I had pounded them into his flesh myself. Sadness envelopes my heart. From his painful position he shows compassion on a convict beside him, and some of those watching near me. I am confused by the sign that says he is a king. A king of what, I wonder?
The last words I heard him say were, 'It is finished.' Everything after that became chaotic as the sky grew dark and the earth shook. What was finished? I don't understand. I hear someone nearby say that this was Jesus, the Son of God and that he willingly died (Jh. 10:18) for our sins (1Cr. 15:3). Really? My sins?
I must learn more about this man;
the one whose hands were nailed to the cross with my handmade nails.
Lord, thank You for giving Your life in place of ours. It was our cross, our death sentence that you died in place of. It was our whipping You endured, our burden you carried, our nails piercing your flesh. There, You bore the price of our sin, paid in full (Jh. 19:30). Thank You!
*This is a narrative based on as much historical fact as possible, but there can be no absolute guarantee that the research done by others is accurate as none of us were there.
