Holy Friday

A woman of about forty years old came close to me and said, I see from your face that you are a wise man. I have come with my children to visit the Holy Land and to follow in the steps of the Savior. Can you tell me where on Good Friday He stood when he witnessed the crucifixion from a distance? I want my children to sense the scene as it once really was.

I thought for a moment. “Do you believe in our Savior, and in the resurrection of the dead?” I asked.

“Indeed,” she replied.

“Then,” said I, “come with me.”

I led her and her three little ones to a certain knoll within the grounds of the Russian Hospice on the Mount of Olives. I bade her stand where they do a service on the afternoon of Good Friday, and pretend to herself that the Mount of Olives, in the foreground, was a vast plain, sloping gently downwards to Jerusalem, which, as a matter of fact, is no longer visible, hidden as it is by the trees of Gethsemane.

I walked away down the hill. “Now you are standing in the attitude and the very place in which the Mother of our Lord was standing, when, with Mary Magdalene and John, she watched her Son hanging upon theCross.”

I paused and watched the effect of my words upon my listeners. I saw in a moment that it was what they had come for. I saw the shadow of the Cross upon her face, and I knew the shadow would not fade.

I pointed out the place where our Redeemer hung. “Look there!” I said, “There He died, because the love of God was stronger than the fear of pain, and the Cross stronger than the grave.

I believe she would gladly have knelt to pray at the foot of the cross, if I would have allowed her. But it was now time for me to show her the rest of the way of the Cross, so I led her down through the village of Gethsemane, and we made our way by the Church of the Tomb of the Virgin.”

“I do not know what you will find in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher,” I said as we drew near, “but you will at least be able to see the stone on which they laid his blessed body when they took it down from the Cross.

As I spoke, I was thinking of the stone of Scone, that old and sacred stone lying in Westminster Abbey, and of what it has meant and still means to the people of the British Empire. All our kings, from Edward the First and John Balliol in 1292 to Queen Elizabeth the Second, our gracious lady, in our own time, have been crowned and invested with royal sword and scepter over that relic of bygone centuries.

It came into my head at the time that the stone of Scone derived its sanctity not so much from the fact that first Jacob and afterwards Edward the First had used it for a pillow where they wept and prayed, as from the fact that for generations it has been consecrated by the prayers of saint and sinner alike. It seemed to me that the stone on which they laid the body of our Lord would be for all time consecrated by the prayers of the innumerable pilgrims who for centuries had come to worship there.

When we reached the spot, I lifted her little boy up and placed his feet on the stone, and then his sisters. As one child after another stood there, the mother’s face lit up with a light that was not of the flesh. It was as though she were for a moment seeing her children not with the eyes of a mother, but with the eyes of God. I shall never forget her face.

We passed out into the sunlit street again and stood for a moment upon the steps of the hospice, looking out over the city. She looked for a moment at the Tower of David. “It is almost as though we could see the devil up there, tempting our Savior,” she said.

“Come with me,” I said, and I led her to a narrow lane, and pointed to a house with a wooden balcony. “There our Savior stood when he beheld the city and wept over it and cursed it.”

She turned away, and looked out once more over the city. “We have nothing to give thee, O Christ,” she said, “yet we will love thee though it break our hearts.

“It is enough,” I said.

“I am surprised to hear you say that,” she said, looking at me in the light of what had seemed to be a prophecy.

“I have seen your face,” I explained, “and I know from it that your heart is already broken.

She smiled a little sadly, for she knew I was telling her the truth.

“Come with me,” I said, and I led her to the Garden of Gethsemane.

“Where did our Lord kneel in this garden when He prayed for the cup to pass from Him?” her little girl asked.”

“No man knoweth, my child,” I answered, “but they will show it to you.”

“There is only one place where He could have knelt,” she said as we walked back to Bethany, “and that is the place where one still feels the presence of His Spirit.

“You are right,” I answered.

As we reached Bethany, the sun was setting and the light was fading fast. “Let us go into this house,” I said, “and hear the story of the Supper at Bethany.”

As we spoke, we entered the house and the door closed behind us.

A few moments later, the children were asleep, and the mother was sitting in silence, with the peace of God upon her face.

“I have seen nothing,” I said, “that I have wanted to see, and nothing that I shall ever forget.”

“I am glad,” she said.

“Will you come with me tomorrow to the upper room in Jerusalem where our Savior ate the Passover with his disciples?” I asked her, as I picked up a lamp and led the way out into the night.

“I will come,” she said.

As we walked back to Bethany, I thought of the words of the psalmist: “My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed: I will sing and give praise.”

For I knew that her heart was fixed, and that she would sing and give praise all the days of her life.