It’s Friday. The day Jesus was beaten and tortured as He walked through the streets. People gathered around to watch the show as others insulted Him. They lashed out at Him verbally and physically as well. He was beaten and bruised. His body was pierced, and His skin was torn. He stumbled and fell to His knees on several occasions, I imagine, as He continued to carry His own cross on His journey.
They took our precious Jesus, and they nailed Him to the cross. They drove heavy nails into His hands and feet. They mocked Him as they called Him “King” and placed a crown of thorns upon His head. He moaned in pain. He cried out.
They lifted Him up on the old rugged cross and placed Him between two thieves.
Our Jesus, our King, our Messiah. The Son of God!
He hung on the cross where He called out to God as He bled, “Lord, forgive them. They know not what they do.”
There my Jesus said, “It is finished,” as He took His last breath. The earth shook, thunder roared, and lightning flashed across the sky.
They crucified Jesus as His mother watched in horror, her body consumed with grief. She cried at the foot of the cross as He hung there, lifeless.
They took His body and placed it in a tomb. They rolled a stone in front and had guards patrolling.
They buried my Jesus on a Friday.
Ah, but Sunday’s coming.