Good Friday
John 19: 23-27 - A mother’s grief
The spectators on the hill were jeering and hurling abuse. I wanted to protest that my son was innocent, that this was all a terrible mistake, but I couldn’t speak. Pain, like a sword, was piercing my heart.
Jesus was only 33 years-old, a wonderful, caring man. How could he deserve this?
We stood huddled in a group at the foot of His cross. The soldiers had moved away to play dice. The prize was my son’s robe.
I saw the wounds where the nails had been driven into His hands. I wanted to wipe away the blood just as I had done whenever Jesus hurt Himself as a child. I longed to put my arms around Him to comfort Him. But, this time, my son was out of my reach.
“Look after my mother, John,” Jesus gasped. Typical! He always thought of others before His own needs.
I turned away as tears streamed down my face.