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            Good Friday
Oppressed by the mass of a heavily splintered cross, my body lands painfully on the cobblestone way beneath me. My strength is all but gone. No boot or blow can raise me from this dusty road of respite.

Lifted up once again and led up from the city, we stop at a place called “Golgotha,” the place of the skull. The crowd stays to jeer and taunt as my sweat-soaked clothing is ripped away from my bruised and bleeding flesh. Stretched out now upon the wood, my wrists tied tightly against the beam, a nail is pressed firmly into each palm as my killer lifts his heavy hammer toward heaven. (Soon the crowd will see how much my Father values the soul.)

With a heavy smash the first nail crashes through my hand as agony explodes throughout my being. Another blow and new pain burns hot up my arm as the second nail bores through my flesh. Now my legs are raised to press my feet against the wood for yet another nail. More smashing blows and new waves of agony wash over me.

Lifted high above the earth my cross is cruelly dropped into a socket that all may behold my broken, disfigured body. The hours pass as a relentless sun gives way to dark, foreboding skies. As I hang between heaven and earth my cross, an instrument of death and defeat, becomes my victory pulpit. Slowly, I let my life bleed away for the sins of many.

At my birth I willingly set aside the glory of my deity. In this death, I willingly empty my humanity. It is my life; it is my passion; I willing lay it down.

At last, Father, “it is finished...”




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