When Jesus cried out, “It is finished,” He did not speak as a defeated man, but as the victorious Son of God. With that cry, the heavens shook and the earth trembled. The curtain in the temple was torn from top to bottom. The work of redemption was complete. But have you ever considered what it meant—not just for Jesus—but for the heart of the Father?
“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish, but have eternal life” (John 3:16, NASB). We quote this verse often, and rightly so. But we must pause and feel the weight of what it says: God gave His Son. He didn’t loan Him. He didn’t shield Him from suffering. He gave Him, fully, painfully, and completely.
This was no ordinary giving. This was the giving of the most precious, most holy, most beloved relationship in all eternity. The Father gave the Son, and the Spirit empowered the Son, that we might live. There was no division within the Trinity, no conflict of will. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were in perfect unity—a divine agreement made before the foundation of the world (1 Peter 1:19–20). Yet still, when Jesus hung upon that cross, the pain pierced more than flesh—it pierced the very heart of heaven.
Let’s not imagine the cross as a scene where Jesus suffers alone while the Father remains unmoved. That’s not the God of Scripture. God is love (1 John 4:8). And love suffers. “He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all…” (Romans 8:32, NASB). What kind of love is this, that the Father would give what was most dear to Him, knowing full well the price?
When Yeshua bore the full weight of our sin, something unfathomable occurred. “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21, NASB). That transaction required justice. And for a moment—just a moment—the Father turned His face away. Not in abandonment, but in holiness. Not in rejection, but in judgment. And in that moment, the cry of Jesus pierced the heavens: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46, NASB).
It’s not wrong to say that heaven felt that pain. God is not indifferent. He is not a cold judge. He is our Abba Father—tender, merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love (Psalm 103:8). When the spear was thrust into the side of the Son, the Father knew. When the thorns pierced His brow, the Father wept. This wasn’t just a human tragedy; it was a divine agony.
But it was also a divine triumph.
“It is finished” (John 19:30). That declaration meant more than the end of pain—it meant the beginning of grace. The wrath of God was satisfied. The debt of sin was paid in full. The way back to the Father was opened. Heaven did not just feel the pain—it rejoiced in the victory. And all of it—every step—was born out of love.
So now, beloved reader, you must ask yourself: What will you do with this love?
You were bought with a price (1 Corinthians 6:20). Not with silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish (1 Peter 1:18–19). You are not your own. If the Father gave His Son for you, how can you live casually toward Him? If the Spirit groans for you, interceding with groanings too deep for words (Romans 8:26), how can you neglect so great a salvation?
You must not stand aloof from the cross. You must come near. Let it break your heart. Let it cleanse your sin. Let it reorient your entire life. Heaven felt the pain that redeemed you.Will you now live as though it costs you nothing?
Paul writes, “I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20, NASB). That’s the response of a heart that has seen the cross. Not religion. Not routine. Not a Sunday-only faith. But a life crucified, a life surrendered, a life aflame with gratitude.
Friend, if you have become numb to the cross, ask God to awaken your heart. Pray that you never grow comfortable with His sacrifice. Ask Him to show you what it meant—for the Son to suffer, for the Spirit to empower Him, for the Father to give Him up. That kind of love is not safe. It demands everything.
And yet, it gives everything.
Because of that pain felt in heaven, you now have peace. Because of the sorrow of the cross, you now have joy. Because of the silence of Saturday, you now have resurrection Sunday.
Do not waste this gift.
Come again to the foot of the cross. Let it wreck your pride. Let it shatter your excuses. And then rise, filled with the Holy Spirit, and live like someone who knows that God Himself bled for your freedom.
A Prayer for Today:
Father, thank You for the love that gave Your Son. Yeshua, thank You for the obedience that led You to the cross. Holy Spirit, thank You for staying with me and showing me the depth of this love. Awaken my heart again. Let me never treat lightly the agony of Calvary. Help me to live sacrificially, joyfully, and boldly in response to Your grace. Let my life reflect the weight of what was done for me. In Yeshua’s holy name, Amen.
Vision
In heaven, the atmosphere was weighty—thick with holy sorrow and glory. The golden streets, so often resounding with songs of praise, fell into a stillness that echoed through eternity. The scent of incense, always rising before the throne, was now mingled with something deeper—an aroma of sacrifice, like the offering of Isaac remembered and fulfilled. The air carried the tension of divine justice and eternal love colliding in one sacred moment.
The Father stood robed in radiant light, yet His expression bore the agony of a grieving King. His eyes—all-seeing—beheld His Son stretched on wood, blood mingling with dirt, and heard every cry, every mocking voice, every gasping breath. From His throne, He could feel the vibrations of the Roman hammer striking nails—each blow shaking the pillars of creation. The sounds of the earth—groaning, thundering, cracking—were not missed in heaven. The cry “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” pierced even the silence of eternity.
Around Him, the angelic host did not sing—they wept. Seraphim who had never ceased to cry “Holy” now covered their faces. The light of heaven shimmered with reverence and pain, like a storm forming just beneath the surface of peace. Thunder rumbled in the spirit realm. Flashes of glory stirred, restrained only by the will of the Father. All power stood clothed in stillness. The Son, robed in humility, did not summon the hosts of heaven though they waited—ten thousand times ten thousand, swords drawn in perfect obedience. The earth shook not from their advance, but from the trembling surrender of Love. Yeshua held back the storm, not for lack of strength, but for the joy set before Him.
All might, all angelic legions stood ready—yet none moved. Not a seraph’s wing stirred, not a cherub dared breathe without His command. He could have called them. But He chose the cross. Not because He was overpowered, but because He came to overpower death with mercy. This was the Lamb’s hour. This was the Father’s plan.
And still, the Father breathed in the moment, tasting the bitterness of wrath He would not withhold. His hands, sovereign and eternal, did not tremble—but His heart did feel. He knew the end from the beginning, but this was the cost. He felt the tear in the Son’s flesh as if it were His own. And He did not stop it. For love. For you.
Even in that pain, a fragrance began to rise—stronger than incense, sweeter than myrrh. The fragrance of redemption.It was the smell of blood that would wash nations, of obedience that would open graves, of a sacrifice that would welcome prodigals home. The throne shook not in fury, but in fulfillment. And somewhere, just beyond the veil, resurrection waited.