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!