The Passion

He was tortured to the point of being unrecognizable: beard ripped out (a hand-full at a time), face covered in blood and other people’s saliva, flesh literally shredded. Then He was crucified: freshly ripped open back rubbing up and down the rough-cut wood of the cross, struggling to gasp for air, having to push up on feet with a single spike through both of them and pulling up using spikes between the bones of the forearm for leverage.

His mother at His feet would gladly take His place, but is powerless to remove a single ounce of pain or suffering from her firstborn.

Only one of His closest friends remain of those He has spent the last three and a half years with, the only one that not only heard His words, but His heartbeat too.

Another woman sat, staring at His feet, covered in blood… It seems like only yesterday that she washed those feet with her tears and dried them with her hair.

He saw the remains of His life crumble around Him while experiencing the worst form of torture and execution known to man – all out of love and obedience.

And then He said, “Father, forgive them…

He wasn’t just talking about the soldiers who nailed Him to the cross. He wasn’t only talking about the politicians that allowed it to happen. He wasn’t only talking about the Jews that insisted it happen. He wasn’t only talking about His followers that fled from Him out of fear. He was talking about every human, ever – even you and me.


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