Indeed, it is here now; the time has arrived.
They will be scattered and He will be deprived.
His return to shared glory will look like a loss
but the path to redemption will depend on the cross.
Three times the garden grows tears within prayers.
Three times they’re sleeping among dreams unaware.
Soon three times denial will come to the light,
and three wooden crosses will rise into the sky.
He stands at the ready when armed men appear,
and with a kiss from the traitor—betrayal is here.
Fulfillment of arrest, no battle granted within.
Reprimands handed to the sharp ears of His men.
A trial without hearings, no one understands,
His accusers oblivious to His name, Son of Man.
Annas to Caiaphas and Sanhedrin to Pilate,
The blame shifts in power, but His defense is silent.
A handoff to Herod retreats to Pilate’s house,
where three offered releases are refused by the crowd.
So Pilate washes his hands and binds the Savior’s together,
and a powerless prefect trades a prisoner for fetters.
A shattered disciple begs for a reversal,
but hypocrites balk. This is not a rehearsal.
The payment of death thrown at scandalous feet,
as grief drives betrayal to hang from potter’s tree.
After Barabbas is chosen for the freedom of guilt,
followed orders from Pilate begin blood to be spilled.
A whip served with laughter and a crown full of thorns,
the soldiers play dress up, Jesus now purple-adorned.
“Hail, King of the Jews!” They mock and they spit.
They make fun with worship and they slap and they hit.
They bully before Him. A taken up cross follows behind.
And they parade the world’s Savior before His own mother’s eyes.
A hidden crew of confusion follows His direction
straight to the place where sin will have no protection.
A lamb without warrior walks among hearts wrapped in stone
as He enters the dedication of His final call home.
There was no fair trial and no crime He committed,
but He is nailed to a criminal’s cross, not acquitted.
The jury of unequal peers condemn with no evidence clear.
Convicting a man to death based only on fear.
The Son of few words refuses drink for the pain.
He watches them hate Him, mocking His name.
They meant it for harm, but God’s plans were different.
Even on the cross He offers the wonder of forgiveness.
“Yeah right, you’re the King!” as they laugh and they tease,
“Then you should be able to come down with ease!”
But He hangs nailed on that cross to change all of our stories.
A standby soldier. A dear friend. Both offer witness to glory.
“You claimed you would rebuild a temple in just three days?
Where are your tools now for this building you’ll raise?”
The crowd unites in the killing and throws dice for His clothing,
while He directs His disciple and mom to keep going.
A high-noon eclipse. Darkness gets their attention.
Still no awareness they are witnessing redemption.
Leaders worry of optics. Passover clocks closing in.
They request to break bones. Time’s running thin.
But at the place of the skull, Golgatha’s 3 p.m. strikes.
“My God, my God,” they hear the innocent cry.
Sour wine now accepted through the blood of His lips,
“It is finished,” now uttered by Jesus of Nazareth.
Mother and brothers gasp and cry out at the crime
as the Son of Man takes His last breath and gives up His life.
The ground shakes in terror and the veil tears in two,
and eyes begin opening, revealing regret nailed to truth.
The cemetery opens as one soldier kneels,
and saints walk the streets with the strike of the heel.
“This man was truly the Son of God!” now one declares.
Broken down by the loss, some realize they cared.
The order obeyed to speed up death arrives.
Criminals first, Sabbath needs none left alive.
But for Jesus their mallet arrives just too late.
No bones will be broken, the spear confirms fate.
They had murdered the innocent and slaughtered the Way,
knowing now not He, but they, committed atrocities that day.
His skeleton of followers stood numb, heartbroken, and lost.
They had just watched their teacher pay the ultimate cost.
To be continued . . .
