From the “Holy, Holy, Holy, we adore Thee, O most High,”
Down to earth’s blaspheming voices and the shout of “Crucify.”
Good Friday defies metaphor or analogy.
For all other human beings the glory of heaven is a future hope, scraping in through a mustard seed of faith a prospect beyond imagining that makes every earthly day a day of waiting and watching.
But for Him?
Heaven has loud voices. No God so great, so totally, angel-mind-blowingly wonderful could be worshipped merely with a dignified silence or a quivering lip. Shouts and trumpets, cries and echoes must have their place in the perfect song and the glorious sinless assembly. This was his home.
But now this.
The savagery of soldiery, the clever mockings by the temple elite, the baying of the thoughtless crowd of copycats.
What did he do to deserve this?
No. What did I do to deserve this. What did he suffer that I deserved?
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