You stand there Lord,
before the haughty Roman judge,
bloody,
beaten,
abandoned.
Behold, says Pilate.
So frail you seem,
as you lift your bloodied head
and look upon this gathered crowd,
hungry as jackals.
Bruised and battered, the face
that looks out over the assembly
gazes not with hot hatred
or numb resignation of the broken,
nor self-pity,
but with love
and grief
and an unfathomable caring
that yearns to heal each of us.
Lord, I am not worthy to meet your gaze.
Have I not, like Peter,
denied you?
Or like Judas, betrayed you;
Time after time, have I not
added to your stripes,
pierced your head
with the hard thorns of an unloving heart?
And yet here you stand,
pouring yourself out like a drink offering,
letting the cup be drained
until nothing is left.
Lord, you said the word to heal me -
let me never forget the price you paid.
On this Friday morning, my Lord,
let me remember that sad Friday morning so long ago,
when Pilate presented you to the gathered mob,
bloody,
battered,
beaten,
a mockery of a king
crowned with thorns
meant to look small,
crushed,
contained.
Yet no mortal man could contain
the love that looked out over the crowd,
the love that heard the cries of hate,
and still forgave,
the love that waited patiently
as the executioners gathered
and sentence was passed,
the love that chose
this very path
to bring us life.
May I never forget
the gift you gave us
that sad Friday so long ago.