Isaiah 9:6a – “For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given…”
The prophet Isaiah begins with language so familiar that it’s often read too quickly. Yet within this brief phrase lies a depth of mystery and majesty that anchors the entire gospel. “For unto us a Child is born” speaks of an earthly event–Messiah’s humanity. He was born as all men are born, taking on flesh, entering a specific culture, time, and lineage. The Hebrew word for “born” (yalad) reinforces His full identification with us. This is the miracle of the incarnation: God wrapped in the vulnerability of a newborn child.
But Isaiah doesn’t stop there. He continues, “unto us a Son is given.” This second phrase doesn’t repeat the first–it deepens it. The Child is born, but the Son is given, not created. The eternal Son of God–the second person of the Godhead–was not born in Bethlehem in the way His humanity was. He was given a gift from heaven. The Hebrew word natan (נָתַן) is used throughout Scripture to denote intentional, covenantal giving — often in the context of offerings and sacrifices. This is the divine generosity that would later be unveiled entirely at the cross.
The dual nature of Messiah–fully God, fully man–is not abstract theology; it’s the foundation of your salvation. Only a perfect man could die in the place of mankind, and only God could bear the infinite weight of humanity’s sin. Yeshua (Jesus) didn’t come to Earth as a religious symbol. He came as the ultimate expression of God’s love–clothed in flesh, destined to bleed, and determined to redeem. He is heaven’s answer to earth’s need.
This changes how we approach Him. He didn’t arrive with royal demand but with divine mercy. He didn’t come to take from us — but to give Himself for us. In a world where value is so often based on performance, this truth lifts the burden: your worth is not found in your striving, but in His giving. You don’t work your way to Yeshua; He came to you.
So understand this–not with cold intellect, but with trembling wonder: a Son was given for you. Not loaned, not bargained, not reluctantly offered–but freely, fully, and forever given. Heaven’s most precious treasure was not withheld. The One through whom all things were made stepped out of eternity and into a womb–for you. The radiance of God’s glory wrapped Himself in the frailty of flesh–for you. The eternal Son, co-equal with the Father, laid aside His majesty and embraced mortality–for you.
He was given not merely to inspire you, but to redeem you. Given not to judge, but to justify. Given not to add to your burdens, but to break them. The weight of your sin, your shame, your story–He took it all upon Himself. This is not abstract theology; this is a divine intervention. Heaven bent low and placed its finest jewel into a broken world–for you.
So fall to your knees in awe, and let this reality pierce through every layer of doubt and weariness: You were worth the giving of the Son. Not because of who you are, but because of who He is. And He is love in its purest form, gift in its highest expression, and grace in its fullest measure. Be still–and receive the wonder of His love!
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[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]These verses capture one of the most profound Messianic truths in all of Scripture. What man cast aside, God exalted. What the builders saw as flawed and unfit, God chose as the foundation of His eternal plan. Yeshua (Jesus), the rejected One, is the very cornerstone upon which salvation, identity, and destiny are built. This is more than a theological concept — it’s a divine reversal that reveals the heart of redemption. Rejection by man does not disqualify–it often qualifies you for God’s greatest purposes.
These verses are far more than ancient lyrics — they are a spiritual invitation. The psalmist doesn’t just admire the gate — he pleads for it to open. “Open to me the gates of righteousness…” This is the cry of a heart that longs for access to God, not by merit, but by mercy. In Hebrew thought, gates represent transition points — thresholds between the common and the holy, the outside and the inner court, the temporal and the eternal. These are not man-made doors — they are divine entrances into the presence and promises of the LORD.
As we continue our study in Psalm 118, I want to take a deep dive into verses 17-18, where the psalmist makes one of the boldest declarations in all of Scripture: “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.” This isn’t the voice of someone untouched by pain — it’s the cry of someone who has been through the fire and come out declaring God’s faithfulness. This statement is not a denial of suffering; it’s a defiance of death. It’s the resolve of a heart that’s been chastened, refined, and pressed, yet remains confident in the God who preserves life — not just for survival, but for purpose.
Over the past two devotionals, we heard the song of the redeemed and stood at the wells of salvation. We saw how strength, song, and salvation flow from Yeshua Himself — how the joy of drawing from His presence is not just a poetic promise but a lifeline for our day. Yet today, we stand at a prophetic threshold. Something has shifted. Something has broken open. We are not only being refreshed — we are being awakened and called.
Yesterday, we heard the anthem of the redeemed rise like a trumpet blast: “The LORD is my strength and song, and He has become my salvation.” We explored how this was more than personal — it was prophetic, Messianic, and generational. We saw Yeshua not only as our Deliverer but as the very embodiment of God’s strength, the melody of our praise, and the fulfillment of every promise. We stood in awe as tents of rejoicing rose in the midst of warfare, and households became sanctuaries of celebration. But today, we go deeper — we step to the well.
There’s a reason this verse resounds like a national anthem of the redeemed. It’s not just a personal declaration—it’s a generational cry that echoes back to Moses at the Red Sea (Exodus 15:2) and forward to the final deliverance of Israel. The Hebrew word for salvation—Yeshua—makes this verse unmistakably Messianic. It isn’t a vague deliverance. It is the revelation of Yeshua (Jesus), the Deliverer, who embodies strength, becomes our song, and stands as the fulfillment of God’s redemptive plan.
The cry that shattered the stillness of Golgotha—“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Psalm 22:1; Matthew 27:46)—was not a random cry of despair, but the deliberate voice of Yeshua pointing to Scripture. As He hung on the tree, bearing the sin of the world, He invoked the ancient words of David—not only identifying Himself as the righteous sufferer, but signaling that Psalm 22 was unfolding before their very eyes. In that moment, heaven and earth bore witness to a divine mystery: the Holy One, seemingly abandoned, was fulfilling a prophecy written a millennium earlier. Yeshua did not merely suffer—He fulfilled every word, every shadow, every stroke of divine prophecy.