What kind of king is this? He doesn’t look like a King. What a shame. What a defeat—hanging on a tree gasping for breath, beaten, mocked, bleeding. This sort of humiliation is reserved for only the worst of the worst; the lowest of the low. This is a sad and hopeless ending, or so I thought. Those bruises become my healing; that blood, my cleansing; his death, my life. What kind of King is this? He’s the King that dies for His enemies, of which I was the greatest. Oh, what a beautiful death!
Many of the Jews read this inscription, for the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city, and it was written in Aramaic, in Latin, and in Greek.