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Though I realize it had to be, though I understand what it accomplished, and though I know that a brilliant dawn awaited Him who endured the darkest of all days, I am unable to shake free from the sound of those square nails being pounded into place.
Imagine what it must have been like for Jesus’ disciples and followers, who had just seen His bruised and broken dead body taken from the cross and buried.
Since the earliest days, faithful Jewish parents have taught their children prayers to repeat at certain times of the day. Often, these prayers come directly from the book of Psalms. One such prayer is an evening prayer, from Psalm 31:5: “Into Thy hand I commit my spirit.”
Who really cared? His was a routine admission to busy Bellevue Hospital. A charity case, one among hundreds. A bum from the Bowery with a slashed throat. The Bowery . . . last stop before the morgue.
As you waved goodbye to your friends at church last Sunday, what mental darts were left stuck in the target of your thinking? Can you remember those pointed challenges from the man who stood before you with Bible in hand?