I lost my son.
I watched him die.
There is nothing harder than burying a child, even if he was the age of a man. He will always be my son.
I watched the court prosecute him. The crowd demanding public execution. The magistrate wringing his hands…wringing his hands.
Then the final verdict, guilty. The crowd roared.
My son had watched his friends leave. At his arrest they fled. They abandoned him.
Some hid in the crowd pretending not to know him.
Then they led him away. The guards mocked him, taunted him and beat him. Over and over they beat him. In front of me.
He winced in pain, I could not do anything. I cried a deepest cry, inside. The pain, the anger. I was beside myself. My son. He winced in pain. They whipped him. Scores of flesh fell from his bones. The lines on his body, the bruises, blood everywhere. He winced in pain.
I watched as they led him away, they punched him and shoved him. He fell again and again. They spit on him and pulled out his hair. They ripped his beard off of his face.
The blood, he winced in pain. He shuddered. I shuddered, I held my head, I closed my eyes, yet I couldn't look away. I could still see him. My son.
He carried the very instrument of death for the officers. They mocked him, the crowed thronged upon him, yelling at him, and some cursed him. They spit on him again and again.
My angered roared. My sadness sickened. My depression great. My son, my son. I felt he was innocent. I knew he was innocent of the crimes they accused him of.
The blood spattered, he fell to his knees. The cross drove thorns in his back, what was left of his back. Bones exposed, muscles hanging, was he even a man?
They threw him to the ground. They hammered and laughed. They yelled in delight. They spit on him, they hurt him. My son.
I saw him struggle, to breathe.
They strung him up. They put him between two others. They were killing him. I watched. I felt numb, shocked.
They gave him vinegar when he cried for water. They laughed; they wanted to prolong his suffering.
The blood streamed down the cross, then seeped into the dirt. It cried out My name.
His mother watched, she stood at the edge of the crowd, where he could see her. In horror she watched the death of her son.
Some friends were there, most would not come forward to speak or be seen. I saw them watching my son die.
He cried for me, I could not do anything, but look away. It was almost too much to bear.
The darkness, the dank, the vile and the destructive. The sin, the death. He felt it all. My Son.
The weight of everything belonging to everyone even the world itself, the very thing He created. The people rejected him, the very ones He created.
With one last declaration he gave up His ghost. His body went limp. The blood spilled and flowed. Broken, poured out. His head went down.
It grew cold, the sky grey, the thunder roared, the earth shook, my anger burned.
The guard stuck him with a spear just to make sure. Water and blood streamed from his chest.
They killed my son. I watched the whole thing, yet couldn't do anything.
That day I buried my son.
Will you come honor my son?
Romans 5:19 For as by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners, so also by one Man’s obedience many will be made righteous.
Joh 8:58 Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, I am.
Isa 40:22 It is he that sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers; that stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in:
.jpg)