Good Friday is the day love broke open.

It is the day blood and mercy mingled. The day silence hung heavy in the air as the Son of God breathed His last. And the day that, paradoxically, the greatest victory the world has ever known was won through what looked like utter defeat.

We remember the Cross today—not just as a symbol of suffering, but as the greatest expression of love the world has ever known.

“It is finished.”

Three words spoken not in despair, but in triumph. Not in resignation, but in radiant completion. Jesus’ cry from the Cross was not a whisper of defeat, but a roar of redemption. It was a declaration that the debt had been paid, the veil torn, and the chasm between us and God bridged once and for all.

He gave up His life willingly. Not taken, but given. Not demanded, but offered.

In that moment, love was no longer theoretical or conditional. It became flesh and bone, pierced and poured out. It looked like forgiveness for those who mocked Him. It looked like hope offered to the criminal beside Him. It looked like the Lamb, spotless and surrendered, taking on the weight of all our sin and shame.

And in the shadow of that Cross, in the radiance of that love, I ask myself: How then shall I live?

What kind of life rises from such love?

It cannot be a life of self-preservation. It cannot be a life of bitterness or revenge. It cannot be a life lived for comfort alone. Love like that—love that suffers, that forgives, that lays itself down—calls me to more.

It calls me to open my hands when I want to cling. To forgive when I’d rather fold my arms. To listen when I’m tempted to turn away. To see the dignity in every human soul—because Christ died for them too.

It calls me to live not from scarcity, but from the fullness of grace that has been lavished on me.

The Cross redefines love—not as sentiment, but as sacrifice. Not as a feeling, but as a fierce, unrelenting choice. And in the light of that, I am invited to live a cruciform life. One shaped by His love. One poured out in response.

This is not easy love. But it is holy love. It is the love that interrupts cycles of hate. The love that shows up in the grief, in the mess, in the margins. The love that says, “Not my will, but Yours.”

And so, on this Good Friday, I do not look away from the suffering. I do not rush ahead to Sunday. I sit at the foot of the Cross and let that victorious cry echo through every part of me.

It is finished.

So let the striving cease. Let the shame fall away. Let the walls we’ve built crumble. And let love remake us—again and again.

May I live today, and every day, as one who has been loved like that.