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I watched him take her into his office. This time, at least there were witnesses. I walked away, slowly. Cold, painted brick lined the hallways and the silence crept around the corner echoing in my head long after the noise of kids laughing at me breaks into it.

They’re taught to be vicious, these kids, and maybe they’ll survive. These ones, relief bathed faces that they were, seeing my tears, taunted and teased. Knowing that they were spared from becoming a victim didn’t deter them from making their own victims, and how could it?

Their rescuer wasn’t what they imagined. It wasn’t what they hoped for, dreamed of when their families dropped them at the orphanage steps. Their rescuer wasn’t their redeemer, he wasn’t their hope. He was their oppressor. Behold, their king.

We’ll echo praises of Hosanna this weekend, in our Palm Sunday worship. Remember: He will come, he will rescue us. Man will terrify no more— we won’t be victims, and we won’t make victims out of our own sin and death. He will be our hope. Behold, our King.

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