It is Finished!

Six hours, moment by excruciating moment, droned through the day. It was not a particularly long time as crucifixions go, but for the heart longing for it to be over, for whom each second seemed to be an hour—like slogging through muck, it was agony unsurpassed. Resignation to death crept into the face of the Son of God. His bruised, sunken eyes focusing, turning to one of the soldiers he said, “Please, I am thirsty.” The touch of cool water on his parched lips would have been wondrous rescue. A sip of such crystal liquid would have comforted his dry tongue, and however small, assuaged his pain. Instead, the heartless Roman soaked a stalk of hyssop in a jar of bitter, vinegared wine and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. “Now, you miserable bastard,” his laugh dripping with sarcasm, “where is your Jew prophet? Where is your Elijah? Let him come now and pluck you from the cross!”

Jesus received this bitter drink. The foul-tasting liquid had an effect the soldier had not thought about—it numbed the edge of pain ever how slightly. Enough to clear a throat turned to sand, enabling Jesus to say clearly and loudly, “It . . . is . . . finished!”

Darkness. But for the soft whistle of wind around the crosses, silence. Not so much as a whisper. All who witnessed this terrible scene heard it. His voice, like a clap of thunder, echoed across the valley, penetrating the hearts of both the faithful and the curious, reaching through the corridors of eternity, into the very Soul of Almighty God. His head fell to his breast in final whisper meant for only One, “Father,” he spoke, “I give my spirit into your hands.” His body emptied itself of its final breath, and his spirit was gone. Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews, was dead.

Mary choked back her agonized scream with eyes of desperate horror.

“Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law. I came, instead, to fulfill it.”

Beyond the lowering clouds, beyond the moon and sun, beyond the stars our eyes could see and beyond the stars we could not see.

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