Sunday was coming

The whip cracked through the silence, biting deep into flesh already torn.

Each lash carved a new wound, and the soldier did not flinch—this was routine for him, just another crucifixion.

But this was no ordinary man.

Mary stood frozen in the crowd, her knuckles white around her shawl, her soul trembling beneath the weight of what she witnessed.

A scream tore through the air, and only as the sound pierced her ears did she realize—it was her own voice.

“No! Not my son! He has done nothing wrong!”

Her words fell like broken glass at her feet, sharp and useless. And yet his eyes—those familiar, tender eyes—met hers through the blur of blood and sweat. Blood traced slow rivers down his cheeks, mingling with tears and the cruel thorns pressed into his brow.

Those same cheeks she had once kissed goodnight, now streaked with crimson.

This—this was not the future she had imagined when the angel whispered, “You shall call his name Jesus.” She had envisioned light. Glory. Peace on earth.

Not this wooden beam. Not this hill of death. Not the sound of jeering voices and splintered hearts.

But then, even in agony, his voice came soft and steady. “Do not weep for me.”

Still, she wept.

She pressed forward, stumbling through the mass of bodies, her eyes never leaving him.

The crowd had changed. The same voices that once sang “Hosanna!” now spit venom:

“Crucify him!”

The same mouths that had begged for healing now pleaded for Barabbas to walk free.

Where was Peter, the bold?

Where were the others who vowed to stay?

Gone. All but John.

Only John stood with her, silent and steady, a trembling strength beside her grief.

Together they watched the unthinkable unfold.

She saw him lay himself down—willingly.

The nails did not drag him to the cross.

Love did.

The hammer fell.

Each blow echoed into eternity, and her heart cracked with every strike.

She wanted to run, to scream, to undo the world.

But she stayed.

And then came the cry.

Raw. Splintered. Heavenward.

“My God, my God… why have You forsaken me?”

She knew the question.

Had the Father turned His face?

Had the heavens gone deaf?

The blood pooled at the base of the cross, thick and red and sacred.

She saw it run, and her mind traveled back to scraped knees and childish cries.

To holding him close, kissing away the pain, whispering lullabies of safety.

But not this.

She could not kiss this away.

She could not reach him now.

So much blood.

So much pain.

Did it have to be this?

Was there no other way?

Why must her son—so kind, so pure—be beaten, stripped, and nailed to a cross meant for a criminal?

But this was not the end.

The blood was not wasted.

The silence of heaven was not abandonment, but the holding of breath before resurrection.

Her son was not just her son.

He was the Lamb.

The Savior.

The ransom paid in full.

And though her heart broke that day,

The veil would tear.

The grave would shatter.

And joy would rise again.

Sunday was coming.