It was early morning on a highway outside the city when traffic stopped for a terrible sight. A delivery truck had struck a small car and pushed it off the road. Within moments, a few drivers left their vehicles, running toward the wreck. One man, a paramedic on his way home, crawled into the crushed car to reach the injured driver. He used his own shirt to stop the bleeding. The man’s hands were covered with blood before the ambulance even arrived. Later that day, someone asked why he risked his life to help a stranger. He answered quietly, “Because someone once did it for me.”
That simple statement tells more about the heart of God than many a library of theology.
We live in a bruised and broken world. Every day the headlines cry of wars and storms, earthquakes and accidents, crime and cruelty. We are surrounded by suffering. And the great question of the ages rises in every honest heart: Why does a good God allow such evil?
Philosophers have filled volumes, skeptics have hurled the challenge, believers have wrestled with tears in the dark. Yet the truest answer does not come from the scholar’s desk or the courtroom of debate. It comes from a hill outside Jerusalem, where a Man hung upon a cross between earth and sky.
There, the Almighty answered not with words carved in stone but with wounds carved in flesh.
There, the eternal God stepped into human pain—not to explain it away but to bear it away.
There, the mystery of suffering met the mercy of a Savior.
The wounds that men inflicted became the wounds that won our salvation.
Evil exists. It is the dark backdrop against which the light of God’s love shines brightest. Sin entered the world through pride and rebellion. Adam chose self above obedience, and ever since, the human race has lived east of Eden. We inherited more than guilt—we inherited brokenness. The earth itself groans under the weight of that fall. Disease, disaster, and death are not strangers in this world; they are squatters who moved into a house built for joy.
But God did not abandon His creation. From the first moment of sin, He promised a Redeemer. A bruised heel would crush a serpent’s head. The shadow of Calvary stretched all the way back to the gates of Eden.
Down through the centuries, prophets spoke of One who would bear our griefs and carry our sorrows. Isaiah saw Him as the Suffering Servant: “He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed.”
The world waited, groaning. Kingdoms rose and fell. Philosophers guessed and failed. But when the fullness of time was come, God sent forth His Son, made of a woman, made under the law. And into a world aching with pain, Love was born wearing human skin.
He came not to escape our sorrows but to share them. He was hungry, weary, tempted, misunderstood, despised, betrayed. He wept at the tomb of a friend. He sweat drops of blood in Gethsemane. He felt the lash, the nails, the thorns. The Creator wore the consequences of His creation’s rebellion.
And then, as He hung upon the cross, heaven’s silence was broken by seven cries—each one a note in the greatest song ever sung. “Father, forgive them.” “It is finished.” “Into Thy hands I commend My spirit.” Those were not the groans of defeat; they were the trumpet calls of victory.
You see, my friends, the cross was not a tragedy; it was a triumph disguised as tragedy. The darkest hour became the dawn of redemption. Out of the deepest wound flowed the richest mercy.
When men look at Calvary, some see failure. Rome saw another rebel crushed. The priests saw a threat removed. The disciples saw the end of their hopes. But heaven saw a victory plan unfolding exactly on schedule. The wounds that bled were the wounds that won.
Think of it: by His stripes we are healed. The very suffering that looked like the triumph of evil became the instrument of God’s good. Satan struck, but the serpent’s fangs broke upon the heel of the Son of God. What was meant for evil, God meant for good.
Do you see what this means for us? The cross is not only the place where sin was judged; it is the place where suffering was redeemed. Every tear that falls on this cursed earth glistens with the promise that God has entered the pain Himself.
If you have ever cried out, “Lord, why?”, know this: He has cried it too. “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” Those words were not a failure of faith; they were the voice of faith speaking from the deepest pit. He entered your darkness so that no darkness could ever separate you from Him again.
There upon that rough-hewn beam, God turned evil inside out. The cross shows us that He can take the worst thing that ever happened—and make it the best thing that ever happened.
He did not stop the nails; He sanctified them. He did not silence the hate; He conquered it with love.
And from that day to this, every believer who has walked through suffering has heard, behind the thunder of pain, the whisper of Calvary: “I have been there. I am with thee. I will bring thee through.”
We live between the wounds and the victory, between the Friday of anguish and the Sunday of resurrection. But the outcome has never been in doubt. Because the tomb that held Him could not hold Him still.
On the third day, the earth that had drunk His blood trembled, and an angel rolled the stone away—not to let Jesus out, but to let us look in. The scars were still there, shining like banners of triumph. When He showed them to Thomas, they were not marks of shame but emblems of victory.
The wounds that won have never healed over, for they are the everlasting tokens of His love. Revelation says the redeemed will see “a Lamb as it had been slain.” Even in glory, the marks remain—the eternal memorial that suffering was conquered by self-sacrifice, that love won where hate raged.
Those same hands that were pierced are stretched out still. The same voice that cried, “It is finished,” still speaks to the sinner’s heart, saying, “Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
The victory of the cross did not end at the tomb. It began there. The wounds that won on Calvary were crowned with glory at the resurrection. The risen Christ carried those scars into eternity as living proof that redemption is real, that justice and mercy have met together, righteousness and peace have kissed each other.
Sin had thrown its worst at Him—betrayal, mockery, torture, and death. Hell hurled its fury. Yet out of that storm came peace. Out of death came life. The Lamb that was slain became the Shepherd of our souls. The Carpenter’s hands that built a cradle for truth now build mansions for the redeemed.
You ask, “Why does God allow evil?” Because He is not finished with His victory. The cross was the down payment; the resurrection the proof; the second coming the completion. Evil exists for a season, as night before the dawn, but its days are numbered. The blood of Christ guarantees its end.
When John looked in vision and saw the redeemed upon the sea of glass, he wrote, “They overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony.” The same blood that flowed from Calvary will be the anthem of eternity.
The wounds that won are the pledge that pain will not have the last word. Every tragedy that has broken your heart will one day be answered with joy unspeakable. Every tear will be wiped away by the hand that once was nailed to the tree. Evil will end, not by explanation, but by elimination. God will make all things new.
But the triumph of those wounds is not only cosmic; it is personal. Those scars speak your name. The thorns He wore were for the curse that bound you. The nails were for the guilt that haunted you. The spear was for the heart that doubted His love. He bore it all that you might stand forgiven and free.
When you look at the cross, you are not looking at tragedy; you are looking at truth—the truth that love is stronger than hate, that grace is greater than sin, that life is mightier than death.
Once a soldier stood at the foot of the cross. He had seen hundreds die, but never like this. As the earth quaked and the sky darkened, he whispered, “Truly this was the Son of God.” That centurion saw what the world still needs to see—the majesty of mercy in a crucified Christ.
Friend, there is no pain you carry that He has not carried further. There is no sin you bear that His blood cannot wash away. There is no loneliness He does not understand. The wounds that won are proof eternal that God is not against you but for you.
He could have stayed in heaven and left us to our ruin, but He came down. He could have called twelve legions of angels, but He stayed on the cross. He could have silenced His accusers, but He forgave them instead.
And now, He calls you. Not with thunder, but with tenderness: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.”
You may feel unworthy, but that’s whom He came for. You may feel too far gone, but His grace goes farther still. You may have wounds of your own—scars of sin, of sorrow, of shame—but tonight the wounded Healer stands ready to make them shine with victory.
The nails that tore His flesh opened the gates of heaven. The spear that pierced His side released a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins, and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.
It is not enough to admire the cross; you must come to it. It is not enough to understand the doctrine; you must receive the Deliverer. The question is not whether you believe in God, but whether you have believed on His Son.
Some years ago, a missionary told of a remote tribe where a plague had struck. The chief’s son offered himself for a cure. They drew his blood, made a serum, and the people lived. Every time they saw the scar upon his arm, they bowed their heads in gratitude. He had suffered that they might live.
How much more should we bow before the scars of the Son of God? His wounds are the pledge of our healing, the price of our peace, the seal of our salvation.
So hear His invitation now:
“Look unto Me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.”
“Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.”
“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”
This is the hour of decision. The world still bleeds, but the cure still flows. The cross still stands, and the wounds still win.
Will you come? Will you bring your sin, your fear, your weariness to the Savior who bought you with His blood? Will you let the wounds that won be the victory in your own life tonight?
The arms that once were nailed are open wide. The voice that stilled the sea now calls your name. The same Jesus who triumphed over the grave is ready to triumph in your heart.
If you will come, He will not cast you out. If you will believe, He will forgive. If you will kneel, He will lift you up. And one day, when faith becomes sight, you shall see those wounds shining like jewels upon His hands, and you will know—they were for you.
Then you will say, with every saint and angel,
“Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power,
and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing.”
And through the ages of eternity, the chorus will roll on:
The wounds that won.
The blood that cleansed.
The love that conquered all.
