 This is love, hanging high upon a tree, bruised, disgraced, forsaken. God, where are you? God, she is there, on that tree, lynched, murdered, dying. This is love, and the price of love is our lives. When we are willing to break open our flesh and pour out our blood for the good of our enemies, we will glimpse heaven, even if in the moment it looks like hell. Love is willing, willing to give itself over to death that others might live, willing to subject itself to oppression to set the oppressed free. Love is victorious, but only through defeat. This is love. Do you see it? Will you be it?