“Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?”
A gasp pierces through the darkness. There is no Sun, anymore; he has hidden his face, in shame, and in horror. The sky is dark, the air heavy with the stench of blood mingled with sweat and wood. The Sun withdrawn, the galaxy turns upon another fixed point, a hill at the heart of Jerusalem- Golgotha, the Place of the Skull.
Three jagged trees stand erect at the apex of this hill. Men hang upon each, affixed to the wood by colossal nails hammered through their wrists and their crossed feet.
At the center is a Man out of place. He does not belong here, his punishment a consequence of others’ hypocrisies, hatred, betrayals, lusts, lies, cowardice, and pride. He is mangled beyond all recognition. A diadem of thorns digs into his scalp, causing blood to trail down his face. He is naked, his frugal belongings having been split amongst the soldiers that marched him to Golgotha’s peak. His back is split along his spine, flesh rent asunder from the bone by the lashings of a Roman scourge. Every breath is agonal, his position making every draw of air labored and insufficient. Breaking his knees would expedite the process, bringing a quicker death- a mercy.
The Man would not receive mercy. He would hang.
The crowd at his feet murmur, reveling in the hideous spectacle. “Behold,” they sneer. “this man is calling Elijah!” They are ignorant of the words he spoke, and the meaning his sentence carried. They do not know that his agony is more than physical, that his soul roils in the furnace of abandonment’s pyre- the torment of Son forsaken by Father.
“I thirst,” the Man croaks. He knows that his work is done, that now only the closing verses of prophecy are left to be fulfilled.
A soldier runs to fill a sponge, dipping it in a jar of sour wine. Bystanders jeer, “wait! Let us see if Elijah will come to save him!” The soldier brushes them aside, fixes the sponge to a tall reed and holds it to Man’s lips. The Man drinks, the vile flavor mixing with his bile and blood, aggravating the sores in his gums and doing nothing to stem his dehydration. The sip is enough. The work is done.
“It is finished,” declares the Man, breaths still ragged and airless.
His body aches with unceasing toil. His mind flitters between consciousness and the terminal void, his corporeal functions shutting down. His spirit pulls to descend into Sheol, but it cannot go; it is still tethered to the Man as he yet clings to life. He will not die until He so wills, and He still has a final word to say.
The Man draws himself up as high as the nails allow, his head turned toward Heaven as his soul pulls towards Hell- it too being led where it does not belong, but must go to accomplish the work. Master even then over the basal elements of creation, still the Lord over all the physical world, the Christ again does the impossible. Breathless, airless, without the requisite oxygen in his lungs, and lacking the power of his voice in a parched, blood-stricken throat, yet he cries out a booming, ultimate pronouncement:
“Father, into your hands I entrust my spirit!”
The earth is silent as the Son of God breathes His last. The earth shook, and the great temple of Jerusalem saw its veil torn in two, split from top to bottom. Many of the dead were raised, leaving their tombs to enter the high holy city, revealing themselves to multitudes.
But upon that dreadful hill, Jesus Christ hung dead.
His pain had been indescribable, his misery incalculable, his torment inscrutable. There were many who suffered the death Christ suffered. There were thousands crucified by the Roman Empire, thousands scourged by Roman whips, and thousands betrayed and abandoned by their friends. But there was only One who did not deserve it. There was only One who lived a perfect life, betrayed no one, spoke only truth, lusted never, hated none, and loved always.
Of all men who ever lived, across all time and from all places, only One did not deserve to die. Only One could have refused death if He had so willed. Only One suffered a crucifixion He did not deserve, and only One was crucified because He chose to be.
Jesus Christ died a death He did not deserve, to secure His beloved with a blessed, eternal life we do not deserve.
On this day, a little over two-thousand years ago, the infinite, sovereign innocent, was killed by- and died for- His damnable, Hell-meriting creations. No damned soul can call this day Good.
The Christian Urvogel 