I close my eyes.
and the first thing I imagine is the thorn of crowns, cutting into His sweet, bloody brow. I look at the crown. In my mind, I run my fingers gently across the thorns and I whisper to Him. I just sit in the sorrow for a bit, and when I feel ready, I let my minds-eye travel to His face and His beaten body. His arms, aching from being stretched out and held up. I spend time studying His sunken cheeks, His hollowed eyes, His chest, His arms, and oh, Lord, His wrists. The blood that came from a nail, spilled for me...
I gradually see His back, beaten beyond human recognition. I move slowly, taking it all in. I trace the wounds, I pray for Him, I weep with Him. I thank Him. I see His legs, hung weightlessly into the base of the cross, nails driven through his ankles. I imagine what it must have felt like as the nails pierced His skin. I hear the shouting, the chaos, the overwhelming sense that the moment of death is near.
I am another woman who stands at the foot of the cross, forgiven.
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