(An excerpt from my Jerusalem journal as I gazed on one of the supposed sites of Golgotha)
As I ponder the barren ridge,
I find no beauty etched into the creviced skin of this lonely mount.
A place ever remembered for evil’s seeping plague,
Of Hell’s rejoicing.
A fitting place of unlovely for a despicable act—
The crucifixion of perfection.
The one flawless being to ever walk this orb, forced to scale the cliff’s cruel height.
Stumbling over loose stones and knifed outcroppings in a bloody ascent
to unfathomable agony.
Reviled by many, beloved by the few.
Living water freely offered but misunderstood and squandered.
Poured out onto the thirsty earth by wastrels.
And I see sorrow etched in the chalky rock.
Witness to the blackened hearts hurling insults like sharpened spikes
shouting, “Crucify Him.”
And with the final hammer’s blow,
love, mercy, and grace hung on a tree that terrible day.
Death celebrated in a manic victory dance as darkness overtook the land.
And for three long days—hopelessness prevailed.
And fear reigned supreme.
But the third day—
The resurrected hope of mankind strode out of the gloom,
And crushed the enemy with eternal triumph over smirking death.
Shining his light of grace on us—
Sinners unworthy of his mercy but so beloved
he battled death once and for all
and declared Victory for us—forever.
