On this Good Friday, I want to share again this poetic prose piece from several years ago. Blessings to you on your observance of these sacred days.
Crucifix at Southside Presbyterian Church in Tucson, Arizona.
Some were there when Jesus, bloody and bruised, climbed the hill to the Place of the Skull. The women, wailing along with the infants in their arms; Simon of Cyrene, forced to carry the cross beam that Jesus could no longer bear; the chief priests and scribes and elders re-writing the narrative in their heads, making it make sense, putting themselves in the role of savior; the chosen apostles—eleven now—trying to blend in with the idly curious crowd, Joseph of Arimathea and Niccodemus, trying to hide their horror.
Some were there when Jesus staggered onto the hilltop; when Simon dropped the weighty beam onto the rocky ground; when the soldiers drove the nails and hoisted the body. The criminal on his right and on his left; the women who loved him; the disciple whom he loved; the abusive guards; the prophetic centurion.
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