By Oswald J. Smith

Night had come again. Another day had gone, and all was still. But what matter? It was always night in the cold, clammy dungeon where Barabbas—son of Abbas—lay. The sun now and then did manage to penetrate the inky darkness that ever reigned beneath the surface of the ground. But even then it could not be called light—it was only less dark.

And yet there was a difference, for this particular night was the night of doom for the murderer who awaited execution. It was to be his last night on earth, and well he knew it. His career was ended, his last crime committed.

Back in the darkest corner, he crouched, deep in thought. A few more hours, and all would be over. Or would it? In the morning he would hear the footfall of the death warden as he came along the corridor. Then for a moment it would cease as the warden paused before the door of his dungeon. The great key would clank in the lock, the bolt fly back, and the heavy door swing slowly open. And then he would be dragged out, led to the fatal spot, and nailed to a cross. And there for hours he would suffer the most excruciating agony that Roman ingenuity could devise, exposed to the public gaze of an indifferent populace—for he mus pay the penalty of his crimes.

In the morning he heard the steps of the jailer as he came along the corridor. The great door opened, and Barabbas crouched in the darkest corner. But that was as far as his surmises of the night were realized.

“Barabbas, have you heard the good news?” It was the warden’s voice, jubilant and strong.

“What good news?” responded the condemned man bitterly. “All I know is that I am to be crucified for my crimes.” And he shrank farther back against the cold wet wall.

“Ah! Then you don’t know,” replied the warden in the same triumphant tone. “Listen, Barabbas. Somebody died for you!”

“Somebody died for me! What do you mean?”

“Come with me, and I will show you.”

Through the door, along the corridor, into the street, and beyond the wall of Jerusalem they made their way, the jailer forging ahead, hurrying his dazed prisoner along. At last they paused.

“Do you see that cross?” he inquired, placing his hand on the shoulder of Barabbas and pointing to a hill some distance away.

The condemned man looked, but several moments passed before he could clearly discern and comprehend the scene before him. But at last he saw and spoke: “Yes, I see. There are three.”

“But do you see the center one?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Barabbas, that center cross was made for you. You were to have died on it this morning.”

Slowly the light dawned and broke on his beclouded mind.

“Then, then—that Man hanging on it is dying for me!”

“Yes, Barabbas, for you. Did I not tell you that Somebody died for you?”

“Can it be possible? For me! Taking my place! I should be hanging there now. And yet He is dying in my stead. He has taken my place! I can’t understand it. I don’t know why He did it. But He did, and I can’t help but. Believe it. He is really and truly dying for me.”

“Yes, Barabbas, for you.”

And for you, too, sinner friend. Jesus Christ the Son of God hung there that day for you as well as for Barabbas. He took your place, died in your stead, became your Substitute, bore your sins, gave His life that you—a poor, lost, and guilty sinner—might live.

Isn’t that good news? You deserve death, but you don’t need to die. You ought to pay the penalty for your sins, but Another has paid it for you. Yes, Somebody died for you, and that Somebody was God’s only begotten Son. Will you now accept Him as your Substitute?