Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.
For a long time--and by long, I refer to the large majority of my (albeit meager) lifespan--I never really cared that Jesus was David's son.
When people called Him the Son of God, now that was something. That was power and beauty and majesty.
David was a cool guy, sure enough. Man after God's heart, and all that. But in the light of God Himself, David was nothing--a broken, sinful wretch like the rest of us.
Why appeal to Jesus as the Son of Man when you can appeal to Him as the Son of God? It seemed to me, the Son of God would be much stronger to save.
But.
(It's funny how that word changes everything.)
One day I fell, in a way I had never fallen before. I felt the weight of dirt and blood settle on my struggling body and I knew it would crush me. I knew I would lose, and I did, and I lost again and again and I couldn't
look up
anymore. Shame, and fear, smothering me.
I couldn't look at God. I was so far away from holy.
That's when I understood that cry.
Jesus. Son of David. Son of Man. Son of a broken, sinful wretch like me. You who were born into this same mess of a world. You who bore the curse of your flesh and endured every temptation. You who dwelt among us. You who became us. You who understand weakness, who have experienced frailty. Please.
Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.
