Good Friday

Good Friday

The spit of the guards ran down his beard, his back bled with the crimson red of his blood and his body exposed to the world could barely stand, It was Good Friday. The crown of thorns placed on his head pained with every move, the people cheered, called him names and called for his death, It was Good Friday. The nails forever marked his hands and feet, these scars would be carried even into eternity, his friend denied knowing him, his mother wept at the foot of the now raised cross, It was Good Friday. The sun grew dark, the earth shook, the holy veil of the temple was torn, the Father’s face was hid, and he cried in pain, It was Good Friday. The debt He did not owe was paid, my debt which I could not pay was forgiven, It was Good Friday.

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Published in: on April 18, 2014 at 12:05 am  Leave a Comment  

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