The sound of singing mingles with the patter of rain and drum rolls of thunder. A cappella voices caress the antiquated words with reverence and awe. It sounds like a lullaby but is really a lament. Picking the needle up out of the groove, I carefully replace it so I can listen to the song again.

I was 14 when I first heard “O Sacred Head Now Wounded”—not as a part of a classical collection but on an Amy Grant album, My Father’s Eyes. It was beautiful and haunting. I knew nothing of the poem attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux in 1153 or of Bach’s arrangement and use of it in St. Matthew’s Passion. What drew me was the gorgeous harmony, the worshipful singing of those strange old words, and the rain and thunder recorded in the background.

The sacred head, the head of the very Son of God, so tortured, the crown of thorns thrust into the tender flesh—how could it be? It was the same head that Mary cradled in the crook of her arm as she nestled her newborn baby to her breast. The same head that had no pillow upon which to rest because he was going about his Father’s business, teaching and loving, serving and saving. The head of the church.

On the cross, not just his head but his body was wounded beyond recognition. Isaiah 52:14 tells us he was disfigured and marred beyond human likeness. I’m sure when I listened to “O Sacred Head” all those years ago, I wondered why. Why was it necessary for Christ to die?

The ugliness of sin sprouted in the Garden of Eden when the serpent seduced the first couple with half-truths. He planted seeds of doubt and they chose to nurture those doubts. Before he slithered into their lives, Adam and Eve had enjoyed such a close relationship with God that he even walked with them in the Garden. What fascinating conversations they must have had!

But when the fruit had been tasted, suddenly a wall sprang up between the couple and their God. Everything changed forever. Ashamed, they started skulking around, trying to cover their nakedness and their sin. When God confronted them, Eve blamed the serpent, Adam blamed her, and in a backhanded way, even God himself. Their disobedience had broken that close fellowship with their Father. His holiness could not tolerate their sin, and they had to live with the painful consequences of their choice. We’ve been living with those consequences ever since.

In Genesis 12, God told Abraham he would make him the father of many nations. God kept his covenant and Abraham’s descendants multiplied. In order to bridge the gap that sin made between himself and the Israelites, his chosen people, he established a sacrificial system. The people would bring animals to the priest. He would sacrifice the animals. The people would be forgiven. In Leviticus 17:11, the Lord says through Moses that the life of a creature is in its blood. The blood, or life, of the sacrificial victim makes atonement for another. “Without the shedding of blood,” says Hebrews 9:22, “there is no forgiveness.”

But of course after the sacrifice was made, the people would sin again, maybe even before they left the temple. Over the generations the Israelites disobeyed God, rebelled against him, even worshiped idols—the ultimate affront to the one true God. Time after time, he showed them mercy born out of his love. They would beg forgiveness and return to him only to rebel again. The entire Old Testament contrasts the unfaithfulness of the Israelites with the faithfulness of God, and every book points to the need for a Savior—the need for a perfect sacrifice, a Lamb without blemish, that would heal the break between God and man once and for all. Throughout his Word, God paved the way to the cross through the sacrificial system and the prophets. He prepared his people for the arrival of a Savior. But this Savior came not only for those sinful old ancients—he came for us as well. Our sin helped crown his head with thorns and nail him to the cross.

On the waterfront, at the piazza B. Luini, stands a church called Santa Maria degli Angioli, built in the early 1500s. My first sight of it is from underneath the trees at the Gardens of the Belvedere across the street. I’m on vacation in Lugano, Switzerland, researching several Christian monuments in the area. Dwarfed by a large hotel attached to one side, the small church has a simple faÁade, with one round window at the top (covered with plywood instead of stained glass), two long windows, and plain brown doors. A tiny parking lot—which is always packed, day or evening—lies in front. Drivers whirl in, park, and walk up the street to high-end boutiques and sidewalk cafÈs. It’s hard to imagine that this plain little building houses what I came to see: a fresco from 1529.

Inside, the church is quiet and almost empty. It’s dark too, lit by dozens of votives at the side chapels and some sconces. As my eyes adjust, I look up and gasp: the enormous fresco completely covers the wall separating the nave from the chancel. Titled “The Crucifixion,” the fresco shows Christ on the cross. His head, with its thorny crown, is down, his eyes closed, his side pierced. He must have just cried out, “It is finished.” Everyone is there: the two thieves on either side, the grief-stricken women, Roman soldiers on horseback, the scornful, contemptuous mob. Angels hover above Christ’s head. They would have freed him from his agony if he had only said the word. Behind the crucifixion are other scenes: Jesus struggling to carry the cross; the women holding their Savior’s body; the disciples with the resurrected Lord; Jesus’ ascension. Moved, I whisper my thanks that Jesus never called those angels and that no tomb anywhere contains his remains.

The cross was part of God’s plan of redemption from the beginning of creation. Jesus his only Son, perfect in every way, would become human and live among us, loving us, teaching us, revealing our sin, then dying for us and rising again on the third day. Jesus knew God’s plan for our salvation and predicted his death many times in the Gospels. He clearly told his disciples what would happen to him (Matthew 16:21-28; Mark 8:31–9:1). When his accusers came to the Garden of Gethsemane, he allowed them to arrest him. Isaiah 53:7 says he was like a lamb led to the slaughter. He did not even open his mouth. And after the Jewish leaders and Roman soldiers were done with him, the Son Mary had held as a newborn was dead in her arms. The Son who had lain in a manger would soon be lying in a tomb. But not for long.

When my husband and I bought a mosaic cross at an art show a few years ago, we knew just where we wanted to hang it: the foyer of our house. We want everyone who enters to know we are his. The mosaic is made of broken pieces of blue china and tile. Christ’s body, broken on the cross, gives us new life. When we give our hearts to Jesus, he takes the broken parts of our lives and makes them whole. Like the mosaic cross, we become a new creation, a new work of art by the Master.

During Passion Week, we’re tempted to skip over the suffering and torture of our Lord and go straight to the payoff of the resurrection. We don’t want to dwell on the cross. We don’t like to think that his death was necessary for our redemption. Taking time this week to think about the way to the cross will remind us again of the debt we owe. Meditating on God’s Word, confessing our sin, and expressing our gratitude now and all year long will deepen our relationship with him.

When I think about how amazing it is that the Son of God would die for my sin, I shake my head in wonder. How could it be? As in verse three of “O Sacred Head,” how can I possibly express my deep gratitude? I don’t have the words. Humbled, I just murmur “thank you” over and over. I know I can never thank him enough, never love him enough, but I want to die trying.