The Crucifixion

A crown of thorns, woven by human hands,

pressed against His brow,

where sweat and blood mingle like unanswered prayers,

dripping onto the dust—

the weight of the sky clings heavily to His shoulders,

and the wood, rough-hewn, groans

beneath the strain of a burden not His own.

Silent cries rise from the ground,

from stones that could not speak

yet tremble in witness to a crumbling world.

Nails bite deep—iron through flesh,

bone meeting wood in an unholy embrace—

the pulse of life slows,

each breath a chasm deeper,

each heartbeat a whisper of surrender.

The earth quakes as if it cannot bear the silence,

and heaven turns its face away,

for what can light say

to such darkness,

to this unspeakable moment where love and agony

become one?

The sky dims as if to cover its shame,

the veil is torn, revealing the sacred wounded.

He gazes into the abyss,

into a sea of suffering that was not His to know,

yet He carries it—

the burden of treachery, the ache of forsaking,

the cold hand of death creeping slow 

but sure.

And as the crowd watches,

some with indifference, others with grief,

the world changes beneath their feet.

They know not what they witness—

the unravelling of time, the yielding of mercy,

as life pours out in a river that will not dry.

He speaks, not with words

but with suffering, with the silence

of giving all, and in that silence,

hope finds its seed.

Not an end, but a beginning.

The cross stands—

not as a symbol of death,

but of life,

given

so that the broken

might be made whole.

And I, from my own small cross of unseen wounds,

lost roots and longing for belonging,

felt Him near, in that same silence.

He reached out, and the ache of displacement

found rest in His knowing gaze.

Though worlds may shift beneath me,

He steadies me with the promise of home.

Next: Time

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