On Golgotha
Read: Luke 23:32-43
32 Two others, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. 33 And when they came to the place that is called The Skull, there they crucified him, and the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. 34 And Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” And they cast lots to divide his garments. 35 And the people stood by, watching, but the rulers scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself, if he is the Christ of God, his Chosen One!” 36 The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine 37 and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” 38 There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.” 39 One of the criminals who were hanged railed at him, saying, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” 40 But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? 41 And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.” 42 And he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” 43 And he said to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
I’ll spare you the details of my crime.
Suffice it to say
the nails in my hands and feet—
justified.
The crowds shaming,
soldiers mocking,
the rattle of my lungs,
the breaking of my bones–
deserved in full.
At first I do not notice Him.
The wood and the hammer and the terror
are all I know.
What does it matter Who is beside me?
When I wake,
coming back to the splitting of my skin
the bloody spots swimming before my eyes,
it is the women I see first,
weeping, watching.
It is His silence I hear next.
No answer to the jeers.
No begging for relief.
I can’t say the same for myself.
I’m ashamed of the words
I grit out.
I’d like to say
it is the pain,
but I mean them.
Who do you think you are?
Weren’t you the one who promised salvation?
Weren’t you the great Messiah?
Look at you now—
here with us!
He shudders.
He groans.
He makes sure His mother will be safe.
He prays. Psalms.
Father, forgive them.
They do not know what they’re doing.
Everything goes sideways at that prayer.
I turn my eyes His way,
see the heaving chest,
and sense the weight He bears—
not His own.
Mine.
And something dark in me begins to peel away.
What does the sign say?
THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS
Is this is the King of the Jews,
hanging here on the wood
hands, feet, brow, his side
dripping blood?
Is this the King of the world,
numbered with criminals?
Is this the King of Heaven,
displayed naked,
insulted and mocked,
dying?
Hanging here beside me?
This ripping in my joints,
the screaming in my head—I can feel myself
coming undone; still now when they mock Him,
this time His silence
calls for some defense, and I can’t be quiet.
You fool! God is judging us!
But what has He done?
Nothing! How have they hung Him here
between us when He has done nothing?
A howling in my soul is beckoning,
no, demanding:
Believe, believe.
If we were anywhere but here,
maybe He would tell me how I could
make things right
find a new way
follow Him to redemption.
But we are bound to crosses,
barely breathing.
Dare I ask? Dare I speak His name?
Death is coming—for me and for Him—
this moment is my reckoning and
my only hope.
Jesus, can I be with you?
When you enter your kingdom,
could you think of me?
Oh, how can I tell the story,
how then, He turns His head.
Looks at me. And in those eyes:
Love.
A tender gaze that says
He knows what I have been.
Still,
somehow,
forgiveness.
Truly today,
you will be with me in Paradise.
I keep my eyes on Him until He’s gone,
And then I wait for glory.
