Help Me Up Onto the Altar

Every instinct cries out against it. It's not normal or natural—not to this body of flesh. I resist. Surely the stupidest sheep doesn't choose to go to the slaughter?

I said that I wanted to be like Jesus. I know that is God's highest, and best, plan for my life. But not this. "Whoever wants to be first must be slave to all. For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many" —Mark 10:44, 45.

No matter how much I rationalize, there is no escape. I have to put myself on the altar: Every ambition, every desire, every possession, every relationship, every piece of who and what I am. To be like Jesus means there is no expectation of a last minute rescue, no army of ten thousand angels to whisk me off the altar at the last minute. It's all the way.

It's more than willingness. That would only take me to foot of the altar. It's movement, It's climbing up. It's exposing my breast to the knife if that's what He chooses.

It's the least I can do. It's the most I can do. It's the only thing I can do if I honestly want to be like Jesus. The instructions are on the altar.

Help me up.