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“What power does a dead person have? How could a dead person save itself?” John MacArthur’s. My heart was squeezing itself out of me. My mind could no longer bear the weight of this burden, and my soul was alive in hell. I was carrying death on my shoulders. Chains bound my hands, and I was tied to an unshakable ground. My arms felt as though they were about to fall from me. I was utterly exhausted. I waited for a rescue, but there was no hope for me anymore. My voice had died; I could no longer cry out for myself. And who would I cry out to anyway? I chose this path. I chose the thief, and he played with my soul, robbing me of everything dear. There was no good left in me—none at all. Who could I return to? I had already accepted my fate. What power does a dead person have? How could a dead person save itself?
It was over for me — until my lover came for me himself. I remember leaving home shamelessly, trusting a deceiver more than the lover who had crafted me with his own hands. I never thought a man could love like this—a man who could miss, yearn, and mourn like this for a soul that was utterly useless, for a dirtied body, for a dead soul, for a worthless heart. How could I possibly be longed for? But oh, he did. He watched me in my hopelessness. He wept with me. He understood my brokenness. He wept with me, and more than that—he wept for me.
A soul of no use. A soul destined to be sold to hell. But as though he hadn’t crafted me, he stood at the sell. He exchanged his soul for mine. He bought me back with his own life. He gave himself away to return me home. He redeemed me. What power does a dead person have, if not for the man of redemption who comes and brings it back to life?