Burden Bearers

In the shadow of a dungeon, John the Baptist sat—The wild man once wind-kissed in the desert, now locked in chains.

He who had thundered “Behold the Lamb!” now whispers behind bars,

“Art Thou He… or look we for another?”

And two men—

Unnamed by the ink of the page,

Yet crowned in the courts of Heaven—

Come near.

They do not mock the forerunner’s doubt.

They do not shrink from his sorrow.

They do not shame the weight of weariness.

They simply go.

With hearts heavy with his heart,

They walk where John cannot walk.

They carry not his body—but his burden.

Not his chains—but his cry.

And they bring it to Jesus.

They do not edit his pain for comfort.

They do not mask his message for neatness.

They do not pretend it’s not as dark as it is.

They come real. Honest. Human.

And Heaven records every step.

“John… sent us.”

The question quivers in the air,

And Jesus— The Word made flesh,

The One whom John prepared the way for—

He does not rebuke.

He does not sigh.

He does not say, “Tell him he should know better.”

No.

He says,

“Go your way, and tell John what things ye have seen and heard:

How that the blind see,

The lame walk,

The lepers are cleansed,

The deaf hear,

The dead are raised,

To the poor the gospel is preached.”

And in that holy commission,

These two walk back with glory in their hands.

Hope wrapped in testimony.

Sight for the blind and balm for the bruised.

They became the bridge

Between prison and promise.

Between despair and deliverance.

Between the man in chains

And the Christ who breaks them.

Oh, blessed are the burden-bearers.

The ones who carry the cries we can’t utter,

Who bring our doubts to Jesus

When we cannot rise from the floor.

The ones who walk in quietly,

Sit beside our sorrow,

And refuse to let us sink alone.

Heaven knows your names.

Even if no historian records them.

You who stand in the storm for a friend,

You who kneel when they cannot,

You who carry their question to the throne—

You are sacred.

You are not just friends.

You are intercessors.

You are lifelines.

You are living epistles.

You are the miracle

Before the miracle comes.

And one day,

When the books are opened

And the secrets of love are shouted from Heaven’s rooftops,

The King will say,

“I was in prison. I was in doubt.

And you came to Me.”

All because you carried another’s cry

To the only One who can answer.

And that…

Is holy.