What a murderer I am. The worst of all for I killed the King of kings, and the Lord of lords.
Worse than Judas, for my daily life treasured and served money. Worse than the high Priest, for my pride mattered more than that of the author of life. Worse than Peter, for more than three times had I betrayed my Lord and my God. Worse than the Pilate, for my fame came first, and second was that to whom and for whom all is created.
Horatius Bonar(1808-1889) captured this truth in a beautiful hymn: ’Twas I That Did It
I see the crowd in Pilate’s hall,
I mark their wrathful mien;
Their shouts of “crucify” appall,
With blasphemy between.
And of that shouting multitude
I feel that I am one;
And in that din of voices rude,
I recognise my own.
I see the scourges tear his back,
I see the piercing crown,
And of that crowd who smote and mock,
I feel that I am one,
Around yon cross, the throng I see.
Mocking the sufferer’s groan,
Yet still my voice it seems to be,—
As if I mocked alone.
’Twas I that shed the sacred blood,
I nailed him to the tree,
I crucified the Christ of God,
I joined the mockery.
Yet not the less that blood avails,
To cleanse away my sin.
And not the less that cross prevails
To give me peace within.
Yet, in all my hideous shame, it was He that freely laid down his life for my name. It was his fame that took my shame. Oh what a story, that a sinner like me ceases to worry. Singing, dancing and rejoicing, completely free, and all for his glory.