Where Mercy Bled and Grace Began

I wasn’t there that day, but I’ve stood in the shadows of that hill. Not with dust beneath my feet or the sound of hammer against nail echoing in the air—but in my own quiet way, I’ve been there. I’ve stood with questions heavy on my tongue and a soul too tired to keep pretending I’m fine. I’ve stood on the edge of everything I thought I knew, looking at the cross and wondering if grace could still reach the mess I carry.

Maybe, like me, you’ve fallen to your knees with the heaviness of awe at what love actually costs. When you slow down long enough to really see it—not the neat version we wear around our necks or hang on church walls, but the real cross—it undoes you. It doesn’t just move you; it unearths you. Because love didn’t stay safe. It bled.

It’s easy to skip ahead to Sunday. It’s tempting to sing the songs of victory without sitting in the sorrow of Friday. But Easter doesn’t begin with resurrection. It begins in a garden, where Jesus wept and prayed alone. It begins with the whisper, “Not my will, but Yours be done.” It begins with betrayal and silence, with mockery and blood. It begins at the feet of a cross that didn’t have to be His, but He chose it anyway.

This is where mercy bled. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. But in real time, with real pain. It poured out in bruises and gasps, in thorns and torn flesh. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t sweet. It was the kind of mercy that stepped into the ugliest parts of humanity and said, “I’ll stay.”

And there, in the middle of agony, grace began.

Not because grace didn’t exist before—it did. From the very beginning, it moved through every page of Scripture. Grace clothed Adam and Eve in the garden. Grace met Moses in the wilderness and David in his failure. Grace whispered through prophets and lingered over a stiff-necked people who kept running away. God has always been gracious, because grace is not something He does… it’s who He is.

But at the cross, grace became visible. Unmistakable. Fulfilled. No longer hidden in shadows or symbols. No longer accessed through rituals or sacrifices that could only temporarily cover our guilt. The curtain was torn. The final sacrifice was made. The grace that once hovered in glimpses now stood in flesh and blood, arms stretched wide, declaring with every breath: You are still wanted.

This is where grace poured out without limit. Where it didn’t wait for us to be ready. Where it didn’t ask us to clean ourselves up before coming close. It met us in our worst moment, and still said, You’re mine.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve come to the foot of that cross still trying to earn what was always meant to be received. I’ve tried to be good enough, tried to fix myself first, tried to come only when I felt presentable. But grace doesn’t ask for clean hands. It asks for surrendered ones.

He bled for the ones who walk away, for the ones who come back wounded, for the ones who don’t know how to pray anymore. He bled for the anxious and the ashamed, for the proud and the broken. He bled for you. He bled for me.

It wasn’t the nails that held Him there. It was love.

“But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed.”—Isaiah 53:5

When the sky darkened and the veil tore in two, He didn’t declare vengeance. He whispered peace. It is finished.

Not “you are finished.” Not “you’ll never be enough.” Not “try harder next time.” But it is finished. The debt. The shame. The separation. The striving. All of it.

This is where mercy bled and grace began—not because grace was new, but because it was fulfilled. Revealed. Made flesh. And nothing would ever be the same.

So this Easter, I’m not rushing ahead. I’m not skipping the ache to get to the hallelujah. I’m standing at the foot of the cross again, letting myself feel it… letting the weight of what He carried settle into the parts of me that still try to carry everything alone. Because something holy happens when we sit in the sorrow and remember what it cost.

Let the mercy that bled reach your hardest places. And let the grace that began there begin again in you.

Love & blessings this Easter, Sarah x.

If these words met you where you are, I’m so glad.

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