"Woman, Why are you crying?"

They have taken my Lord away and I do not know where they have taken Him. I do not even know Him. Truth? What is truth? Father, Father why have you forsaken me? Struck in the face, flesh torn from His back, briers beat onto His head, this is my body that was broken for you, eat of my flesh, this is the blood, poured out for you, torn from me for you, they looked upon Him whom they had pierced, woman here is your son. They meant to break his legs to kill him on the cross, but they didn’t, they pierced Him instead and he bled water and blood, He died alone, they all abandoned Him. Write “He said He was the King of the Jews”, I have written what I have written. I wash my hands of this. For which of these words did you strike me for? What lie? They have taken my Lord away and I do not know where they have taken him, taken him. They led Him through the streets, horribly disfigured, bearing the means of His death. They spat on Him. They drove iron spikes into the hands of grace, the hands that healed the sick. They hated Me, they will hate you. His feet they pinned to a stake, the feet that walked across the sea. They you say? They? You. Me. My hands are stained with the blood of the water of life. Where have they taken my Lord? Where? Where? WHERE? IF only you would have come when we called you then he would still be alive. My brother is dead, yes I know I will see him on the other side, I know, what? Today? Surely there is a stench. Oh, oh, oh but how? HOW? How is it that He who saved others could not save Himself? Write “He said He was the King of the Jews” he said, he said…I have written what I have written, what I’ve said what I’ve written, written, written. Hands that healed, feet that walked on water, the water of life, life and not death. How is it that He could not save Himself? Father, Father why have you forsaken Me? They looked upon Him whom they had pierced, woman behold your son, hail the King of the Jews, by His stripes we are healed, His stripes, torn into perfect flesh, disfiguring the lamb. Where the Lion? the conquering King? laying there moaning in a pool of blood, torn to shreds. This, This is our King? Our King? Ours? Not mine, no not mine mine, the Lion of Jerusalem, the Cornerstone, how could I have let myself be so deceived? I tell you I do not even know this man! I am not His disciple. I was not with Him. A rooster crowed that morning that they crucified my Lord, the day I drove the spikes into the hands that would heal me, the day I lifted Him up, a spectacle of humiliation, and placed the sour wine to His lips. Do you love Me? Do you love Me more than these? Do you even love Me? Then feed My lambs, feed my lambs. They have taken my Lord away and I do not know where they have taken Him. He said to her “Mary.”