In My Hands

I began kicking his head, stomping and beating as if fighting for my life. His expressionless face became less visible every time my fist plummeted into it making blood ooze from existing wounds. My bruised knuckles hit him again and suddenly I felt his body go limp.

I looked down in my arms as Jesus lay there barely breathing. Looking into his face I hardly recognized him anymore. It took a few minutes, but when he came to from his most recent beating the soldiers forced him to his feet and tormented him even more. Placing the crown of thorns on his head they began mocking him, calling him King of the Jews, bowing down to him and spitting on him. Tears fell, almost undetectable amongst the blood flowing down. That’s when they did it; the soldiers ripped off the purple garment that had adhered to the stripes across his back. Jesus let out a horrible, wretched cry of agony. I looked on as the crowd around me roared in laughter as they placed the heavy splintered oak beam across his back.

He walked along the streets, blood dripping down his body onto the dusty ground. The people jeered and mocked him even more. I saw his disciples standing in disbelief. The man they had come to know as friend, brother, teacher, and Lord was dying a gruesome, painful death – and there was nothing they could do to stop it. I followed the soldiers as they led Jesus down the Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering, on which he collapsed; the soldiers pulled a man from the crowd, named Simon of Cyrene, to carry the cross for him.

At this point tears welled in my eyes. I looked down at my cloak, at my hands. Jesus’ blood covered them. The innocent blood of a man who did nothing but love those who came to Him, His blood was on my hands. I knew that he could never forgive me. I was not innocent – I had done this before and each time found pleasure in it. Before I had killed murderers and thieves, men with no values and certainly no innocence. This time however, I felt horrible inside. I couldn’t bear to look at his face and know what I had done.

At that moment he turned and looked at me, into my eyes, his own piercing my soul. His eyes were not those filled with rage, anger, and resentment. On the contrary, his eyes were full of compassion. How could he look at me like that? I turned my back unable to look into his eyes once more.

On the top of Golgotha, they nailed him to the cross and placed a sign above his head that declared “The King of the Jews.” The chief priest and teachers of the law began to scorn him, telling him to save himself if he was truly the Christ. Day turned into night in a matter of a few hours. Taking a deep breath and using all of his strength he called from the cross “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” When Christ said this I began to weep heavily, I played a part in his death; I beat him, mocked him, and spit on him. How could I ever be forgiven for such an act? Every instinct in me said that he couldn’t have meant what he said. But then a calm over me, a sense of peace and lightness like that of a feather. I knew then that I had truly been forgiven, though I was guilty of killing him.

Suddenly, I woke up. The dream had been so real. I had really played a role in the death of my Lord and Savior. I looked down on my chest where my Bible lay. The verses I glanced at happened to be Luke 23:42-43. “Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus answered him, ‘I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.’” I knew that I would one day live to see my Savior in paradise. I also knew that I had been forgiven and that he loved me even though I was responsible. Even though it was my sin that placed him on the cross, and that it was my sin that caused him to be treated that way. Yet he loved me and still loves me so much that he was willing to give up His life for mine, and was willing to die in my place.