“Father, Into Your Hands I Commit My Spirit”
If this were a symphony, this would be the moment between the final note and the first applause. If this were a journey, this would be the first sight of a familiar home. But this is a dying Messiah . . . and this is a sigh of joy.
“Father” The voice is hoarse. The voice that called forth dead Lazarus . . . the voice that taught the 5,000, the voice that pleaded with God at Gethsamane . . . now says
“Father” . . . now the two are one again . . . now the abandoned is found . . . the schism is bridged.
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It is finished. The events of the past week flash before him.
Palms. Hosanna. Parade. Disciples. Washing. Bread. Wine.
Darkness. Grove. Trees. Alone. Anguish. “NO!” “Yes”.
Footsteps. Torches. Voices. Romans. Kiss. Betrayal. Bound.
Courtyard. Priests. Lamps. Sneer. Plotting. Kick. Mocking. Spit.
Pilate. Uproar. Fear. Whip. Slash. Moan. Thorns. Stinging.
Beam. Heavy. Stagger. Murmurs. Exhaustion. Golgotha.
Nails. Pound. Pound. Pound. Pierced. Writhing.
Taunts. Forgiveness. Darkness. Pain. Peace. “Mother” Compassion.
Thirst. Gasping. “Father” . . . “Father . . . . Into thy hands I commit my spirit.”
~ Max Lucado, from No Wonder They Call Him Savior (with modifications)