I watched the blood trickle out of the wound I had just inflicted upon myself. About an inch wide, and deeper than I had thought.
“I’m sorry, God,” I cried, “I’m so, so sorry.”
I had thought I was done with cutting, but apparently not. It had been six months since the last time. I had been a ‘model Christian’ for the past six months, ever since I had quit.
“I still love you.”
The voice was as plain as day.
“Why? Why?” I asked, knowing the voice was God, “You shouldn’t love me. I’m too bad. I’m a bad person. Don’t love me, don’t love me.”
“I love you.” The voice said.
“No!” I cried.
“Get a pen.” The voice commanded.
“Why?” I questioned, although obeying.
I held the pen in my hand.
“Make a cross of your scar.” He said.
I slowly drug the pen to form a cross.
“I already paid the price. My blood bought your soul. By my wounds you are healed.”
I stared at the cross on my ankle as the reality of his words hit me. I can’t save myself. By his wounds I am healed.
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