My room is protected by your image. On your cross, you hang in sheer agony. Hands and feet pierced. Your head rests on your shoulder, your crown positioned so its thorns won’t pierce your skin. In this recreation, your body is gold and there is no blood to be seen. You appear to be resting or even relaxed, but as a follower I know you are locked in the most intense spiritual battle against Satan himself and the ranked demons of his principalities. I choose this relic to rest above my door as a daily reminder of your sacrifice and to keep demons out. But in my heart is where you reside as my true protection. If this cross somehow became real wood beams and I was suddenly at your feet, among all your other followers, would I close my eyes in fear? Would I run away from the hurt of seeing you in such pain. Or would kneel face down in worship, celebrating your eventual victory of death. Lord, I don’t know the answers except for the certainties that come through you. You are the way, the truth and the life. I will keep my cross on the wall and wonder at your courage and sacrifice. Not just a son —but God’s son — who descended into death for the forgiveness of the filth I bring into this world.