Petrine Easter

This is how I imagine Peter and the disciples at Christ's death. And probably how I imagine myself there as well.

Whips flew, flaying the flesh from your back. Thorns pierced, scraping skin from your skull. Rusty iron bored bloody holes in your wrists, rough wood splintered mercilessly into your bare oozing back. You were hoisted above the jeering masses with contempt. And as you hung laboring with agony over each breath, I stared. Frozen by the horror of the reality that was taking place before me. Stunned by the crucifixion of my teacher and closest friend. Shocked, any thought of encouragement failed me. I could not speak even a word of consolation, nor offer up even a simple prayer of salvation.

Then, even as You screamed your last, a new fear gripped me. I could not stay another second under the shadow of your condemning cross, and so I ran.

Then, stumbling in the darkness outside the city walls I realized what I had just done, and I wept in shame. My heart rended as my eyes were opened to my self-centered state of mind. Forsaken! I had left my friend to die. Forsaken! I had left my Lord to hang beaten, bloodied, naked, and alone, only worried about my own self-preservation, missing His divine example of self-sacrifice. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have been so blind?

O God, I am sorry for this heinous crime of self-love. I repent of placing my life above your love. O my God, hear the desperate cry of this wretched man and have mercy, O Lord, have mercy on me. Bathe me in Your undying love, and let me not soon forget the price that You paid for my soul.