06/14/2025
For God so loved the world
He Gave His only begotten Son
This is LOVE!
Never forget you are LOVED!
Chapter 46 – The Crowd and the Curse from Holy Humanity,
The shadows in Pilate’s court had grown longer, not because of time but because of the weight of what hovered. Every moment was thick with trembling. There were eyes everywhere—some indifferent, some cruel, some stunned by the unfolding tragedy they didn’t yet comprehend.
Pilate tried to reason, to find the gap, to offer an out. He had seen men guilty before, and Jesus did not carry guilt—He carried glory hidden in human agony. Pilate knew it, and it terrified him.
So he offered them a choice.
Barabbas.
Jesus.
A murderer. A rebel. A man of violence.
Or this man who healed children, wept with widows, and spoke of a Kingdom not of this world.
He had hoped it would be an easy decision. He had hoped they’d choose light.
But darkness had been rehearsing for this moment.
The crowd surged—manipulated by whispers, by power, by fear. Priests raised fists. Elders shouted. And the people, like sheep without understanding, cried out:
“Barabbas!”
Pilate reeled. He asked again.
“What shall I do with Jesus who is called the Christ?”
And their answer came, as if ancient and rehearsed:
“Crucify Him!”
It shook the walls.
Jesus didn’t flinch. But something deep in Him tore—not in fear, but in the pain of their blindness.
Pilate washed his hands. But no water could cleanse the silence that followed.
He nodded.
And the scourging began.
They led Jesus to the barracks—stone walls splattered with the blood of men who had never deserved it. The air reeked of iron and sweat. A centurion barked commands. A whip was brought—braided leather with shards of bone and metal.
Jesus was stripped. Exposed. Vulnerable. Human.
They struck Him.
Once.
And He saw the eyes of the adulterous woman He’d lifted from shame.
Twice.
And He remembered the blind man whose sight returned in pools of Siloam.
Again.
And He heard the laugh of Jairus’ daughter as she woke from death.
Each lash bore a name.
Every tear He’d ever caught from the faces of the broken now stained His own.
Again.
And He recalled the tax collector who climbed the tree just to glimpse grace.
Again.
And He saw Peter’s tear-streaked face, burning with the shame of denial.
Again.
And He thought of His mother—her womb once His shelter, now shattered by helpless agony.
Again.
And He felt the tug of generations—those who would never know what He looked like but would dare believe in what He did.
Again.
And He saw me.
And He saw you.
The whip tore flesh. Ripped skin. Blood splattered the floor.
The soldiers laughed.
One of them, younger, with a trembling hand, met Jesus' gaze after a strike. He faltered. He turned his face.
“Forgive him, Father.”
The words came—not with bitterness, but with tears.
Jesus’ eyes never left the heavens. Not because He longed to escape—but because He longed to finish.
Somewhere in the corner, Simi curled against the wall. She could not stop this. But she would not leave.
And the Spirit hovered, weeping.
Creation moaned.
And the Son endured.
Not because He had to.
But because He chose to.
For love.
