Recently, I spent the afternoon with my sack lunch at Canaan
in the Desert, in Phoenix, Arizona. I
found one of the few rare spots with shade and camped there with my Bible and
my journal. It’s truly a restful place,
and the presence of the Lord is certainly palpable. The prayer garden incorporates the seven
stations of the cross of Christ, perfect for this season of the year. The place I chose to sit, rested directly
across from the theme verse of this particular station that focused on Christ’s
scourging: He
was wounded for our transgressions; He was bruised for our iniquities, and with
his stripes, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5). Because Easter is fast approaching, and before
Easter comes the cross, sitting there in the garden, I got to thinking in particular
about the time period we call, “Good Friday.”
Good (?) Friday. The day Jesus
was beaten. The day he was mocked and
betrayed. The day his shame caused the
Father’s back to turn away. The day he
died. The day he was rushed to be buried
in a borrowed grave. Yet, we call it “good.” Certainly not for Jesus. No! Not
by any stretch of any definition, as he was crucified in excruciating pain,
immersed in pitch black darkness and sin-deafening silence. But…
his blood trickled down.
bathed in the bloody pool at his feet.
his flesh to be torn from his body.
the dirt of my foolishness, but white as fresh fallen snow.
shame of regret, but standing in a glistening golden royal robe, a princess’
crown upon my head.
and filled with the bread of life from his body, my thirsty soul satisfied from
his blood.
for me!
for me!
