On bended knees, with walkers, canes, diaper bags, crutches they came to the base of the wooden cross. They placed their outstretched hands to the wood upon once He hung; wrinkled hands, hands clasped to the one behind them, children’s hands, father’s hands, mother’s hands. They reached with a desire to feel the presence of Christ. They genuflected, bowed, sat cross legged, and knelt on both knees. Some processed as a family. They gathered round that cross and bowed their heads in prayer together. A woman on both knees, hands clasped rocked in deep and solemn prayer back and forth. Hiding his tears a man held the cross as though it was holding him up, his support in this lifetime.
They came to him that night that Good Friday that God Friday. That solemn day when the altar was bare, the tabernacle opened the eternal flame blown out and all felt the emptiness like that of the tomb.
We wept for him and for ourselves over his agony that he bared for us not just those of his time but for us. He knew when he hung upon that cross that he was dying for our salvation. He knew my name and the name of each child I would bare and he chose to die for each one of them in that moment centuries ago. There we knelt my children and I hands upon that cross, my fingers crossing over Jake’s and we prayed to Him and thanked him in our small voices, and loved him with all our hearts.
We came to Him and He gave to us eternity at the cost of his own life.