Part two of a three-day series in celebration of Easter
I tossed and turned as I tethered between consciousness and unconsciousness. Images clashed together, messy like oil on canvas.
A slash from my person dismembered someone’s ear. Jesus’ hand stretched forth and returned it back.
“You’ll deny me, Peter. Three times,” Jesus said to me. I shook my head no. No, I won’t.
Hearing the sound of weeping, I turned to see Mary and her friends, reaching for Jesus. Suddenly there was the sound of a whip tearing through the air. I tried to avoid it, and heard it land on Jesus’ back. He groaned, and I could smell torn, mangled flesh.
Then someone shoved me and I stumbled. It was Simon of Cyrene carrying a heavy wooden cross. And Jesus limped weakly and stumbled behind him.
I ran to help Him up, but I drew my hand back as a hammer fell toward me. Bones cracked as the nail locked in the wood through Jesus’s hand where He lay supine on the cross on the floor. Blood was all over Him and rivulets ran down His head too from the crown of thorns sunk into His head. His skin was all pulp.
“No. Please stop,” I whispered. “He did nothing wrong,” I insisted.
Screams of “crucify Him, crucify Him” from the surrounding mob threatened to deafen me. And He could only ask in agony, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?”
In no time, life seeped out of Him, and then came His last words from where the sunset silhouetted Him on the cross with two others beside Him. “It is finished.”
I woke up drenched in sweat, gasping for air, shaking in remembrance of yesterday’s event. I was traumatized. He was dead. I wept into my hands with the grief washing over me afresh.
And on the wings of a soft wind that blew into my room, I remembered as if it was yesterday when He said, “I’ll be killed. And after three days, I’ll rise again.”
My tears halted as hope stole into my grieving heart. If only…. if only. How glorious that would be.