Blood On My Hands
There’s blood in the courtyard, creeping into every crevice. A living force swirls it in all directions, gradually covering every stone till it slithers among the white lilies. An eerie hush envelops the garden withering within the shadows cast by three rugged crosses.
Walking through the courtyard, I tremble as my eyes follow a path of bloody footprints. Above me a mourning dove sings, then flutters its wings but remains perched; her cooing song haunts the dusk-like hours.
From noon till three the sun had stopped shining. The darkness had taken our breath away.
“I think we killed an innocent man today,” I whisper. “But my orders were to—”
“There’s so much blood, so much blood.” In the growing shadows a woman crawls on hands and knees, disturbing the pool of blood.
I hang my head. Shame can choke a guilty man.
She sobs, her tears dripping into the pool. Each tear, sparkling in twilight, splatters spots of red on her dress. It doesn’t matter, she’s already stained.
“You knew this man?”
She looks at me with sad eyes. “Yes, He was my Son. But not really.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Why did He let me … let them do that to Him?”
Slowly she stands to her feet and examines the cuts on my hand. I flinch. There’s a thorn embedded in the flesh near my thumb. I look away as she masterfully removes it. She smiles as she returns to her impossible task.
There’s not enough rags, I think, or enough buckets. “Leave it,” I tell her. “I’ll take care of it.”
In the cool of the evening, having failed to clean the courtyard, I take a long walk to the place of the Skull. No amount of water could have washed His blood off my hands. It stuck, it burnt, it outlined my fingernails. I don’t like how His death is affecting me. “Let it go,” I mumble. “He was just another man.”
As I struggle up the hill a daunting breeze fights with my newly-assigned cloak: A gift for my first kill. It’s a guilt offering. Maybe I’ll leave it at the foot of His cross. I wonder if anyone will remember Him?
As I near the Skull I watch someone taking His lifeless body off the blood-soaked cypress. The wind rustles the one part of his loincloth that isn’t sticking to his flesh by oozing blood. I take a deep breath, keeping my distance. My heart beats through the walls of its chambers as I remember His words: “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing.”
My ears are ringing. It’s deafening. I can still hear the echo of the hammer hitting the nails. I pierced his hands and drilled through his feet. "No!" I sigh.
“Were you … are you the Son of God?”
“Yes.”
It was a still small voice but it knocks me off my feet, down the hill and into the wild brambles. The thorns pierce my flesh. I moan.
The way home feels unfamiliar. My shadow seems disconnected or there’s a second person walking beside me—invisible? Did I hammer the nails into the Son of God? Is there a greater sin?
Each tree I pass reminds me of Him: Every cypress, cedar, and pine shudder; spindly arms shooting out ready to devour me, laboriously uprooting themselves. I run, stumbling through creeping shadows, as a red moon rises. A raven caws, bringing an end to a day of infamy. It is finished.
The world will never be the same. What will I do with His blood on my hands?
~~*~~
And it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour. And the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was rent in the midst. And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus he gave up the ghost.
Now when the centurion saw what was done, he glorified God, saying, Certainly this was a righteous man. (Luke 23:44-47)
13 comments:
An insightful view into a human soul struggling over what he has done. And we know that inspite of this, God's love will relentlessly pursue him, and enfold him with grace.
We all have his blood on our hands. And he invites us all to experience his forgiveness, love and presence.
WOW what a great interpretation. I felt for that man w/the blood on his hands.
So true Sharon. We all have blood on our hands, yet he never counted that against us.
Thanks Tammy.
Packed with raw emotion!
This is a worthwhile peek into the heart of the centurian, Deborah. The struggle. The anguish. Even remorse. But most importantly, the questions, considering whether the truth is really the truth. They are questions so many need to ask. I hope they do and I hope they trust the answers. Thank you for writing this.
What a moving tribute, Debby! Wow! You write so movingly. You capture the agony that the ones who killed Jesus must have felt as they dealt with a man whom at least one of them proclaimed to be, without a doubt, The Son of God, an innocent man. And yet, from the cross, Jesus offered them forgiveness, prayed that the Father would forgive them, for they didn't know what they were doing.
This is our story. All of us. Our sins killed the Son of God. Redeeming us and paying for our sins was why he came. He offers forgiveness to us, one and all, even though we killed him. The question always is: Will we accept this undeserved kindness and accept his offered forgiveness? He desires us to do this and to enter into relationship with him.
Wow, what a raw and poignant piece! Thank you for sharing this! I love your writing.
Powerful. Thank you for sharing with us.
Really thought-provoking. I was challenged by the imagery and how it reminded me of just what Jesus went through for us.
What a great post to get me thinking about the blood on my hands. Moving, meaningful, and applicable.. Thanks.
This is so moving! What a powerful way to view the crucifixion of Jesus from a new perspective. It went right to my heart. Thank you for sharing this captivating piece.
Very moving and thought provoking. Thanks
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