Myrrh and dust.

The journey is almost at end. We pause for rest, trying to rid ourselves of nervous exhaustion. The journey is almost at end. There will be tomorrow, but tonight we sleep. Only He remains awake.

Wine and poison.

In the garden above us, while we sleep, They meet. Nothing can be changed, that was clear. It had to be the way it was foretold. By His death. By His life. He understands and accepts. By His life we see, by His death we live.

Swords and spears.

A kiss, and the soldiers come for Him. We try to fight, but He would have no one hurt. He goes with them. A kiss is all it takes.

Whips and thorns.

Let us go in His place, please. We cry inside but before the cock crows, we forget, we deny. We give Him more pain that all the lashes He receives.

Wood and nails.

The long march to the hill is through. He falls along the way but here on the hill He is raised up high. For all to see. Or pretend not to see.

The journey is at end. He is tired. He thirsts. For us, for our love. Despite the pain, He cries to His Father to forgive us, for we are ignorant of what we have done.

He dies. For we have killed Him. So we may live. By His life we see, by His death we live. By His resurrection, we are freed.

But this is just a story, or so it’s been said. A story for those who believe.

Posted in: Exit Stage Write, Photo Gallery | | March 2008