The Good Friday

I've thought about blogging for some time now. The idea of it is so appealing; letting others know what I find beautiful. In fact, I even started a blog once. I never posted a single word. You see, I'm a journaler, and there was something so impersonal about the click of the typing keys and the glaring screen. Where was my ink? Where were my scribbles? So I finally came to an ingenious solution: blog my journals. This first entry of mine I actually rediscovered today. I wrote it two years ago, the day after Good Friday. As I sat in the floor by my bookshelf, I nearly cried at my own words. My heart ached to share them. This is why I type.

Tomorrow is The Ressurrection.

Yesterday the King of Kings lay in a tomb. Pierced, beaten, bruised, torn, dead. And yet, they call it "Good Friday." Oh, the irony. Oh, the truth.

I can imagine it all.

The Betrayal: how Christ's heart must have broken as one of His best friends kissed Him good-bye. I can almost see His sad smile as Peter quickly brandished his sword to defend against the soldiers, knowing that this loyal companion would soon deny Him thrice. "Oh, Peter," I hear Him sigh.

I see His strength as He holds His tongue before the Sanhedrin-- the very tongue that spoke the universe into being.

I hear the rustle of angels' wings as they refrain from rushing to save their Lord.

I see such beauty as this captive man agrees with their accusations: He is the King. He is the Son of God.

I see the pain in His eyes as those He came for reject Him.

I can feel the crowd pressing tight as Pilate stands, sweat beads glistening on his brow. He is remembering his wife. He knows this Man is innocent. But he cannot dare refuse the people.

I hear the crowd scream out, "Barrabus! Give us Barrabus!" I wonder if the criminal ever thanked them for that.

I wonder if Mary was there. I wonder what she thought as she saw her Son preparing for His death. I think she remembered the stable in Bethlehem: the shepherds, the magi. She sees now the purpose of those gifts.

Pilate is now washing his hands. The people are shouting, "Let His blood be on us and our children!" Lord, have mercy on the souls of those children.

Pilate relents. The strong king is now bowing to his subjects.

Jesus is beaten.

He is nailed to a crudely shaped tree.

He is mocked by those he came for. His face bears their spit; the face of God.

The elders and leaders he once taught in the temple now laugh at his torn, naked body sagging upon the cross. Their shouts mix with the theif's beside Him until you cannot distinguish between the two.

And for the first time in his life, Christ Jesus feels the shame of sin. For the first time in His life, He canot feel or see or hear His Father. He screams out, "My God, My God! Why have You forsaken me?" I can hear Him screaming.

The crowd hears as the King of Kings cries out for His Father. They hear the voice of God.

They see more pain across His face than any criminal they've punished before.

Then He dies.

His life is not taken from Him. He gives up His spirit.

And at that instant, the curtain is torn in two.

The earth shakes, rocks split, dead are raised to life! His death is not a quiet one. His Father will not allow it. They will remember this death.

Somewhere in the darkness, in the temples, the priests freeze as they prepare their sacrifices. Pilate trembles. The crowd gasps. The shepherds quake with the earth. And I imagine, at that moment, all of the animals, the birds of the air, the fish of the sea, and the sacrificial lambs in their fields are still and silent.

And for, perhaps the first time in the history of the earth, all of heaven weeps.