Good Friday/Whipped Christ

Will I Do the Same?

“He grew up before him like a young plant 

and like a root out of dry ground. 

He didn’t have an impressive form 

or majesty that we should look at him, 

no appearance that we should desire him. 

He was despised and rejected by men, 

a man of suffering who knew what sickness was. 

He was like someone people turn away from; 

he was despised and we didn’t value him.

Isaiah 53:2-3

You gave your life for me.

Will I give my life for you?

You took the sting of thorns

so I could smell the scent of flowers.

Will I die so you can live through me,

or will I cling to the pride of asserting

who I fashioned myself to be?

Will I surrender my heart

or will I cling to control?

Will I choose my own power

or will I bow to the Spirit’s?

Jesus,

Isaiah said that You, 

had no “impressive form,”

no desirable majesty. 

But I find you so beautiful,

so majestic, 

so stunning,

so compelling.

For no one else will do for me 

what you willingly did on Good Friday.

You took the thorns, 

So I’d get the flowers.  

Despised and rejected

You were sick with my sin.

My lying tongue flogged You,

my pride crucified You.

You died my death

so I could live your life. 

You took the thorns,

so I’d get the flowers.

Man of sorrows,

acquainted with grief,

hanging on the cross

You shed tears for me.

You cried for the wounds

that now bleed in my heart

You cried for the pain,

that now stifles my breath.

What undeserved beauty,

to see myself in your tears! 

Solidarity’s flowers 

born from thick, sharp thorns.

While I look at my image

in the tearful, sacred mirror

running down your cheeks

straight into my heart,

I hear your invitation 

to follow you to death.

But I cling to myself 

and refuse the cross. 

I love my things to much

I adore my world. 

Will I take the thorns 

so flowers can grow?

Jesus,

Grant me courage to surrender

to the path of the cross

so I can die to myself.

Reorder my loves.

Free me from unholy ties,

apparent freedoms 

that imprison my soul in idolatry’s den.

Grant me the grace I need

to wear the thorns you once wore

so colorful flowers can grow 

in the soil where you planted me.

Amen