A cross is not a quiet death, over in
an instant in one glorious moment of martyrdom like being torn apart by lions,
or meeting the swift sword of a soldier.
A cross is as much an instrument of
torture as it is a gallows from which to hang.
It is there to make a statement, to
warn others, to set fear in their hearts.
And as the day wears on, seconds stretch into minutes, which stretch into hours
until there comes a point when time can no longer be measured
except in the circling birds of prey, and
the gradual weakening of the body,
and its ever more insistent demands for
that substance which is so vital to life,
so foundational to all living things, so
basic to existence as we know it: -- water.
Water to moisten a parched mouth,
Water to free a swollen tongue,
Water to open a sore and rasping
throat that cannot gasp enough air,
Water to keep hope alive, to stay with
them just a few precious moments longer.
Water, to a crucified man, is life.
Jesus was cradled in the waters of Mary’s womb,
Baptized in the waters of the River
Jordan by his cousin John,
Became living water to a woman at the
Samaritan Well,
Washed the feet of the disciples on
that last night he was together with them,
And now, in this moment, when he
craves it the most,
All this man is given is sour vinegar.
"O God, thou art my God, I seek thee, my soul thirsts for thee; my flesh faints for thee as in a dry and weary land where no water is."
Who can tell if these words from Psalm
63 went through Jesus’ mind?
A thirst for water is a thirst for
life,
and a thirst for life is a thirst for
God,
A God who promises streams in the
desert, mighty rivers in the driest of lands,
and living water to wash away every
tear.
Here, at the end of it all, those promises from God seem so far, far away… distant. And yet Jesus, broken in body, still clings to the memory and the hope of life.
"I thirst."
