Calvary

I went up the hill that evening,
when the sun was just nestling into the fold of the valley,
and the moon had found its place above me,
when there before,
not a moment too long ago,
darkness had triumphed over light,
lingering, and covering Calvary with a void,
and blackness so immense, so haunting, so thick,
that one’s hands could almost touch it,
I wasn’t there before,
... I was too afraid to go,
but when all had finally passed,
and the many that gathered returned home mournfully,
I walked up the steep ascent to where the cross,
still stood alone,
motionless, and wounded,
I stood before it in humility,
in shame, hunger, pain, and reverence,
and I stretched my trembling hand,
to run my fingertips along the hard surface,
feeling its defense as the tiny slivers of wood pierced my skin,
it was nothing, I thought, to compare,
and the earth shaded wood was stained,
crimson,
with holy blood not meant to be shed this way,
not even the wood of the cross,
was worthy enough to be stained with this blood,
and below the cross there lay two stakes,
not merely nails,
and they too were discolored with the precious flow that once was,
I bent to pick them up,
and felt their weight in my two hands,
felt their wickedness,
then dropped them in shame,
covering my face with my hands,
not wanting to acknowledge that I,
because of my sinful soul,
was guilty of His death,
that I, in my own wickedness,
drove those stakes into His hands,
without mercy,
hung Him there with my cloak of iniquity,
because I was too human to do otherwise,
because I was consumed by a world of evil,
because I needed the forgiveness only He could give,
because I needed grace,
and grace was received there at the cross,
as my Savior bled and died,
that I might live.