{the greatest friday}

"Father," he rasped out, "Father, O my beloved Father!"

He had to stop. Speaking was too hard. His throat was so dry, but he would not ask for drink again. Last time they had only given him vinegar to quench his thirst. He tried to speak again. He could barely get the words out, but they must hear him. 

"Father, Father, Father!" he summoned all his strength and cried out loudly, "Forgive them. O, Father, forgive them. For they know not what they do!" He wept for their ignorance. The sobs shook his beaten frame, and the wounds on his back rubbed against the rough wood of the cross. The tears the ran over his bruised face mixed with the blood that flowed from his head.

 

He bore all this for them, and they didn't even know, didn't care. They just jeered at him, wanting him gone. They had mocked him and spit on his precious face, and he never once complained.

 

This was why he was there. To forgive. To be a ransom for many. But his suffering was soon to end. 

"Father, my loving Father, your plan is finished," he breathed, then louder, "It is finished! Into thy hands I commend my spirit."

And he bowed his beautiful head. 

And he died.