A piercing of the heart—indeed, tonight my heart is not only pierced; it is ripped apart! I was at the foot of the cross! I watched him die! Die! This son of God, the miracle worker! Skeptics mocked him by telling him to come down from the cross. Why did he not?
He proved his power over death by his love for another grieving widow whose son died. Why did he leave me grieving? He did think of me. Asked John to take his place as my son. Even near the end, he encouraged a thief hanging next to him. At last he said “It is finished.”
Finished! The Messiah, dead. The Savior, dead. The healer, dead. The miracle worker, dead. The king, dead. My son, dead.
However, death seemed welcome compared to the betraying, whipping, scorning, ridiculing, humiliating, bleeding, suffering! They contemptuously jabbed a mocking crown of thorns on the brow that I had stroked in love. The brow that wrinkled when he laughed. The brow that sweat at the end of a long hard day. The brow that oozed blood into his eyes as it made its way down his cheeks.
Why did the glorious shouts of hallelujah, change to threatening screams of crucify him? Why, God, why? Why did you leave him to suffer alone? Why would your promise turn to this? What an ignominious end to your glorious promise!
image: pexels, Luis Dalvan