John 1:29 (NASB 1995)
“The next day he saw Jesus coming to him, and said, ‘Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!’”
Revelation 5:12 (NASB 1995)
“…saying with a loud voice, ‘Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power and riches and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing.’”
Devotional
In every soul awakened by grace, there dwells a sacred awe for Jesus—the Lamb of God. John’s voice, rising in the wilderness, broke not only the stillness of the Jordan Valley but the silence of centuries, heralding the culmination of divine promise. His words—“Behold, the Lamb of God”—ushered in the long-anticipated fulfillment of redemptive history. All the sacrifices, all the shadows, pointed to this: the spotless Lamb, sent not to cover sin but to take it away.
Imagine standing there. The air heavy with expectation, the river glinting under the noonday sun, and then, amidst the crowd—Jesus. Not merely a man, but the Lamb, bearing the weight of a fallen world.
This is no mere symbol. Christ, the Lamb, is the essence of our salvation—unblemished (1 Peter 1:19), the Passover fulfilled (1 Corinthians 5:7), the once-for-all offering (Hebrews 10:10). His sacrifice demands more than mental assent—it beckons our deepest worship.
Lift your eyes to heaven’s vision in Revelation. There, in the throne room of eternity, praise resounds like thunder: “Worthy is the Lamb.” Not a whisper, but a cry from multitudes, proclaiming the worth of the One who conquered by yielding, who reigned through suffering.
The Lamb who bore our shame now wears the crown. His sacrifice purchased our freedom; His glory commands our hearts. We do not serve a distant figure of history—we live for a risen, reigning Savior, ever worthy.
Let your heart be shaped by this truth: The Lamb is worthy—not only in heaven but here, now, in the soil of your daily life. May our lives echo the anthem of heaven, testifying with every breath—Worthy is the Lamb.
The Lamb and the Thirsty Soul
The days in Elkhorn Ridge had settled into a kind of quiet that folks didn’t much talk about. Not the peaceful quiet that rests on the hills after a rain, but the kind that seeps into bones—dry, hollow, and hard to shake. It wasn’t just the land that felt parched. The people too, especially old Silas Greer. He was a man weathered by loss and worn by years of silence, steady on the outside but crumbling slow within.
Silas hadn’t darkened the doorway of a church in near twenty years, not since the day he buried his wife beneath the oak in the churchyard. Since then, his Bible sat unopened, its leather cracked, much like his heart. He wasn’t bitter, not exactly. Just tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of waiting for something that never seemed to come.
That morning, the sun rose sharp over the ridge, casting long shadows across the fields. Silas sat on his porch, cup of black coffee in hand, watching as the light spilled over the hills. The world looked the same as always, but something in him felt restless, unsettled. He didn’t know why, but he found himself drawn to the old church at the edge of town—the one with the sagging roof and the bell that hadn’t rung in years.
The walk was slow. His knees ached, and every step seemed to stir memories he’d tried hard to forget. He pushed open the gate to the churchyard, the iron hinges groaning like they, too, had grown old. The grass was high, and the headstones leaned like tired sentinels. He stopped at her grave, running his fingers along the name etched in stone.
“I never did figure it out, Mary,” he whispered. “How He could take you and still call Himself good.”
The wind answered with a soft rustle, nothing more.
Silas moved to the steps of the church, sitting down with a heavy sigh. His eyes wandered to the sky, searching, maybe, for something he couldn’t name. Then he heard it—the faintest sound, like a song carried on the wind. He followed it, slow but sure, around the side of the church. There, under the same oak tree that shaded his wife’s grave, sat Mae Ellis, rocking in her old chair, singing soft.
“Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe…”
Her voice was worn but steady, filled with something Silas hadn’t felt in a long while.
“Mae,” he called out, unsure if he was glad to see her or not.
She opened her eyes, smiling wide. “Silas Greer. Now there’s a sight. Haven’t seen you in a Sunday age.”
He nodded, awkward-like, not sure what to say. “Didn’t expect to find anyone out here.”
“Didn’t figure I’d find the likes of you out here either,” she chuckled, patting the seat beside her. “Come sit. The Lord’s been known to show up in the most unlikely places.”
Silas hesitated but sat. They rocked in silence for a bit, the only sound the creak of wood and the whisper of leaves.
“You ever wonder,” he started, staring at the ground, “why the Lord lets things fall apart? Why He takes and takes until there’s nothin’ left?”
Mae looked at him, her eyes soft but strong. “I used to. Thought I had Him figured out once. Then life came, and I didn’t understand much anymore. But I learned this, Silas: He never takes without givin’ more. Sometimes, we just ain’t lookin’ in the right place.”
He scoffed, not out of anger, just weariness. “And where would that be?”
Mae’s voice dropped, tender now. “At the Lamb.”
Silas looked up, puzzled.
“John called Him that, you know,” she said. “The Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Took me a long time to see what that meant. That He didn’t just take sin—He took the weight. The grief. The loss. Every bit of it, Silas. He bore it all. And He didn’t have to.”
Silas shifted, the words stirring something deep. “Doesn’t feel like He took much of mine.”
Mae reached over, placing her hand on his. “Maybe you’ve been holdin’ it too tight to let Him.”
Silas swallowed hard. The silence between them grew thick, not empty, but full—like a space waiting to be filled.
Mae started humming again, eyes closed, and Silas found himself listening closer. The song was old, but it carried new weight.
“Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain…”
The words felt heavy, but not burdensome. More like truth pressing in. Silas looked out across the ridge, the sun dipping low, casting gold over the hills. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone.
Reflection
Silas’s path is familiar to many—the slow dimming of faith under grief’s heavy hand. Yet the Lamb’s call still reaches into the quiet places, not with blame, but with boundless grace. His sacrifice touches not just sin in theory, but the personal sorrow we bear. Christ, the Lamb, bore it all. And still today, He lifts our burdens if we release them into His care. No heart is too hardened, no grief too deep for His redeeming love.
Key Takeaway
Gratitude for the Lamb must saturate every part of life. His worth is not a concept but a call—to worship, to trust, and to surrender. Let His sacrifice shape your every step, and His glory fuel your every breath.
Practical Application
Commit daily to thankfulness. Begin each morning with a word of praise, naming the grace you’ve received. Let His love move you to serve others, bear burdens with joy, and live as one redeemed—declaring in life and word: Worthy is the Lamb.
Short Prayer
Lord Jesus, Lamb of God, You bore my sin and sorrow. Teach me to live in the light of Your worth, to walk in daily gratitude, and to declare Your praise. You alone are worthy—of my life, my love, my all. Amen.
Closing Thoughts
In the center of heaven’s song stands the Lamb, triumphant and tender. His cross speaks love, His throne speaks power, and His wounds speak peace. Let every heart draw near and every life reflect His glory.
Quote
“Let us see to it that our gratitude does not end in words but passes into deeds.” – C.H. Spurgeon