For Christians, the pivotal three days – the watershed event – of all history encompasses the current Friday, Saturday, and Sunday (as now called) when the death by crucifixion, period of interment, and resurrection of Jesus Christ took place. In the blood-sacrifice of his one and only son, God furnished the vehicle by which mankind, that part of the Creation made in his own image but terribly flawed through its continual disobedience as introduced by that of Adam and Eve, could be blood-washed and therefore made acceptable in his sight, i.e., without blemish, and consequently eligible to be in God’s presence. In Christ’s interment is seen his identification with the same death that all must face and then experience. In the resurrection is seen the unmistakable visual/historical/documented proof that God, the source of Intelligent Design, is complete master of the Creation, as evidenced in Christ’s victory over death, the ultimate foe of mankind. There is no doubt in this corner that God, unfailingly aware of his responsibility for all mankind, has, with a sorrow too profound for the mind of man to comprehend, provided a magnanimity infinitely magnified by divinity itself for the well-being of that part of the Creation made in his own image. Three sets of verses apply.
The sound of laughter...eerie...hysterical,
Mob-generated, on cue?...theatrical?
Louder and louder, as fueled by sheer chaos,
A sound seldom heard in courts of crude bathos;
A laughter of triumph, of taunting, of scorn,
Directed at one from whom dignity shorn -
Not high-pitched...hyena-like...stalking the prey,
More like the roar where gladiators must play;
And there as I stood in the courtyard alone
I felt the hot hate all the laughter had shown
When Pilate appeared...I was almost relieved,
Since silence...sweet silence...was quickly achieved;
Then came the questions...was I God, king, or man? -
No answers would change the orchestrated plan;
The mob-leaders warned that the wicked must die,
Especially impostors of God on high;
And the mob screamed Barrabas...let him be free,
But they screamed in one voice...just crucify me;
Their leaders had marked me as wicked, defiled,
The mob smelled fresh blood, like the lion in the wild;
As if in slow motion, the soldiers took off
My tunic, and grimly would laugh, and would scoff;
Thank God, as they whipped me, I felt not the lash,
As they turned my back into bloody-red hash;
Then thorn-vines they plaited and crushed on my head -
Thank God for no pain, as my face turned blood-red,
They turned their hands red simply bashing my face,
I felt not their blows...only utter disgrace;
They dressed me in purple, and mocked me as king,
Then slammed the crude bar on my shoulders to swing;
But, strangely, no pain did I feel with that blow,
And, strangely, no pain in the climb, steep and slow;
The mob roared approval, impatient...gone mad,
Such blood-lust, I mused, could men ever have had?
Still in slow motion, with the hammer and spike,
Each soldier grew sweaty with each measured strike,
I watched the blood spurt, as the spikes pierced my wrists,
And then felt the hurt, and the strength leave my fists,
I screamed O my God as they hoisted me up,
Remembered those words about passing this cup...
And then I awoke, as I heard myself scream,
And silently wept...it was only a dream...
And yet as I pondered each bloody-red stain,
I wondered how I might have handled the pain.
Do you…upon that Roman cross
- Your life at last a bloody loss -
Now wonder ere the final breath
Why any man should bear such death?
And…from your horrid vantage point,
Do times seem grimly out of joint…
As those who praised you…hours ago
Now spit…and curse…and hate you so?
Or…do you see through hazy sight
So made that way by blood, red-bright
That streams from thorn-cuts on your brow
A single thing that damns your Now?
Do you as life ebbs fast away
And God ordains you cast away
Sense life you framed…futility…
And death of no utility?
Or…as your thirst is meanly slaked
By vinegar…as water, faked…
Do you now feel your pain worthwhile…
Or…can this rabble you revile?
Ah, no…you say…is that your word,
No matter how insane…absurd?
Ah, no…you say…you came for this -
That through your pain, they may know…bliss?
I Left There, Too
I look inside your cavity,
You…pit of man’s depravity,
You…rock-hard hole of no escape,
You…end-of-life…oh, yes…I gape.
I see the soldiers guarding…nil -
The morbid gawkers seeking thrill -
But, in their eyes…I see the fright
At such an unexpected sight.
With me, they gaze at your inside,
Where death forever must reside,
Where lifeless bodies meet decay,
Where endless night replaces day.
And yet…there is no sign of death…
Indeed, I smell the springtime’s breath;
The death you held…with no way out…
Has left your bowels…in silent shout.
I look inside your cavity
Where once you reeked depravity;
But, when He left your sealed, dark hole,
I left there, too…both body…soul.