Sting of betrayal.
You took my hand and then yanked yours away.
Fickle liar and swift to let me go. More lies to cover your deceit.
Where is the Love?
My only comfort: the One who held the hands and touched the feet of those who denied their own.
Wet floor. Muddy towel.
“What you are about to do, do quickly.”
He did. They did. Quickly.
Wine still on lips, a kiss, and coins spilled on the ground.
A trail of blood from that red room down the dusty road that bore the grooves of tired feet and a heavy cross.
Pierced hands and side accompanied a pierced heart.
He never spoke of their denial, their hatred, their mockery,
or their sheer ignorance at murdering the Son of God.
He only said, “Forgive them. They know not what they do.” And the blood continued to flow.
His wounds became their healing. Just as they became mine.
Healing for today. Healing for years past.
Healing for when those times collide. Again.
I try to lock it away in an Upper Room. But I bleed. Sometimes I gush instead. My own painful road to the cross.
Darkness overtakes. I stand in silence.
Incredulous response to what is happening.
I look around. Fear.
How will they react when they find out I know Him,
that I loved Him all these years?
I am the one who betrays. I am the one who runs when I want to stand. I am the one who put the nails in the hands that offered me comfort.