Jesus let Judas kiss Him.
He stood still as the traitor’s lips brushed His skin, as if love could mask deception. He did not pull away, though He knew the truth hidden behind the gesture.
He let Judas pretend.
He let him wear the disguise of devotion, let him speak the language of loyalty—For Jesus knew the fruit would tell the story in time.
Did the betrayal wound Him?
Of course.
The sting of it settled deep,
a sorrow He had long foreseen yet still felt in full. It was one more burden He carried into the garden,
one more agony pressed into His prayers, one more weight that made Him sweat blood beneath the olive trees.
And yet, He let it happen.
Not just for that night, not just for that moment—but for me.
He saw me in the future,
tears falling with the ache of betrayal,
heart shattered by someone I once held dear, someone who spoke of Jesus, who seemed to love Him,
who convinced me they loved me too.
He let Judas kiss Him,
so that when I whisper through my tears, “Lord, do You know how this feels?” He can draw near,
press His scarred hands to my wounds,and whisper back,
“Yes, My love. I know exactly how you feel.”
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