The following is chapter 20 in the children’s series, If They Could Talk, the story of our redemption as it unfolds from Genesis to Revelation. This is the story of Jesus’ crucifixion and death in Matthew 27, Mark 15, Luke 23, and John 19.
My Friends,
How did it come to this? How did it go so wrong? Passover week began with praises and halleluiahs; it ended with violence and death. I am weary of weeping. I will try and tell the nightmare again. Though I am small, I saw it all.
After His triumphal entry, Jerusalem was abuzz. Would Jesus be King? As the week progressed, momentum shifted. The religious leaders questioned Him, but it was clear their questions were nothing more than traps. Why didn’t they believe in the One the Scriptures so clearly proclaimed?
Whispered rumors said they were plotting His death. Rumors were reality when an arrest was made in Thursday’s dark and a mockery of a trial held in Friday’s dawn. Before Jerusalem awoke, Jesus was carrying His cross up Golgotha’s hill. And with crazed hatred, driven nails through hands and feet pinned Him to the wood. Why would anyone want to kill Him?
Of little legs and little stature, I scurried amidst the stone and spectacle and found myself undetected at the base of His cross. Gazing upward I gasped at what I saw. Bruised and beaten and bloodied by the blows; His features so disfigured my eyes misted and welled. Focus now blurred by tears, I looked away anyway; ashamed to gaze further.
An eerie darkness then swallowed up the light. Moments before the sun had shone bright; now noon, all was black. He cried loud; surely the heavens heard, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?” Just enough light glistened off His blood and sweat brow for me to catch a glance; His question was rhetorical—He knew the answer.
Two others hung that day between heaven and earth; one on a cross to His left, the other on a cross to His right. The one on Jesus’ left mocked and cursed; the one on His right made a request, “Jesus, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.” The Innocent replied to the guilty, “Today you will be with Me in Paradise.” Still trying to grasp such wondrous words to such an undeserving, my thoughts suddenly halted at the sound of the Messiah’s cry, “Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit!” And with that, His chest heaved its last and His head hung in silence. He was dead.
Already on my knees, I slumped further; my head to the ground. Nothing moved; everything went silent. It was as if creation held its breath. The only reminder of His agony was the drip, drip, drip of blood pooling at my feet. Silence was broken by the centurion at guard, looking at the now lifeless face, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”
No one heard my cry; no one heard me beat my breast. I was just a mouse at the base of His cross. And certainly no one heard me mutter, “How would a dead Messiah save anyone?” With no more tears to cry, I made my way to my hole in the ground. I knew He would be taken to His tomb in the ground soon. How could any of this lead to any good?
In sorrow and in pain,
The Mouse