-
There was a day, as I took my daily walk, when I came hard upon a spot forever etched upon my memory, for there I saw this Friend, my best, my only Friend, murdered. I stooped down in sad fear, and looked at Him. I saw that his hands had been pierced with rough iron nails, and His feet had been rent the same way.
-
There was misery in His dead countenance so terrible that I could scarcely look upon it. His body was emaciated with hunger. His back was torn and red with bloody scourges, and His brow had a circle of wounds around it: clearly one could see that these had been pierced by thorns. I shuddered, for I had known this friend quite well.
- He never had a fault; He was the purest of the pure, the holiest of holy. Who could have injured Him? For He never injured any man: all His life long He "went about doing good." He had healed the sick, He had fed the hungry, and He raised the dead: for which of these works did they kill Him? He had never breathed out anything else but love; and as I look into the poor sorrowful face, so full of agony, and yet so full of love, I wondered who could be a wretch so vile as to pierce hands like His.
- I said within myself, "Where can these traitors live? Who are these that could have smitten such a One like this?" Had they murdered an oppressor, we might have forgiven them; had they slain one who had indulged in vice or villainy, it might have been his just dessert; had it been a murderer and a rebel, or one who had committed sedition, we would have said, "Bury his corpse: justice has at last given him his due." But when You were slain, my best, my only beloved, where were the traitors? Let me seize them, and they shall be put to death. If there be torments that I can devise, surely they shall endure them all.
- Oh! What jealousy, what revenge I felt! If I might but find these murderers, what would I not do with them! And as I looked upon that corpse, I heard a footstep, and wondered where it was. I listened, and I clearly perceived that the murderer was close at hand. It was dark, and I groped about to find him. I found that, somehow or other, wherever I put my hand, I could not meet with him, for he was nearer to me than my hand would go. At last I put my hand upon my breast. "I have thee now," I cried; for lo! He was in my own heart; the murderer was hiding within my own bosom, dwelling in the recesses of my innermost soul. Ah! Then I wept indeed, that I, in the very presence of my murdered Master, should be harboring the murderer; and I felt myself most guilty while I bowed over His corpse, and sang that mournful hymn:
‘Twas you my sins, my cruel sins,
His chief tormentors were;
Each of my crimes became a nail,
And unbelief the spear.
-C.H. Spurgeon
