It figures that I would end up here, affixed to a cross of wood in front of this self-righteous, blood-thirsty mob. I’m surprised it took this long to stare death square in the face. Truth be told, I’ve been dying a slow, painful death long before I came to this place they call "the Skull." I am a wretched man, a criminal who has wasted the bulk of my life gratifying myself by cheating and hurting others. I’ve squandered so many opportunities to do the right thing, to love and honor the people in my life instead of using them. Oh, how I wish I could go back and change things, change myself. I am exactly where I deserve to be, dying this barbaric death with my shame exposed for all to see. There is nothing for me to do but hang here and die.
But there’s this man hanging next me on His own cross. They’ve beaten Him so severely I can barely tell that He’s a man at all. The riotous crowd is directing the bulk of its hatred toward Him, mocking Him as if His physical wounds aren’t punishment enough. I heard them chanting "king of the Jews," and that’s when I realized who He is. He’s the man called Jesus, the one who claims to be the very Son of God Himself. He has said that a home in heaven awaits those who trust in Him. The crowd and another criminal on the other side of Jesus are taunting and insulting Him. My heart breaks for Him. Isn’t He the one who’s been teaching the people to love one another? What did He ever do to deserve such punishment? He never cheated, stole, or hurt anyone the way I have, and yet He’s here with me, in far worse shape than I am. What gives them the right to do this to someone like Him?
It’s getting harder to breathe. It won’t be long now. My time is running out, like the last few grains of sand in an hourglass. I don’t know how Jesus survived the beating He took before they nailed Him to the wood, but He’s still alive. He’s struggling pretty badly, so if I’m going to do this, I need to do it now. But how can I? How can I, a common criminal, request anything of someone so innocent in His final, agonizing moments? On the other hand, how can I not? This is my last chance to make things right, to have a chance at something beyond this garish place. Jesus said that He wants us to put our faith in Him. Is now too late? Does He have enough love and forgiveness left for me? Does He know how sorry I am for the mess I’ve made of my life, for the suffering I’ve caused? Does He believe that I want to be with Him? Is the very hour of my death too late to ask for life?
I don’t know if I have enough breath to make my voice work. The man on the other side of Jesus doesn’t seem to be having a problem. He keeps spitting insults. Something about his cruelty gives me the strength I need to speak and I say to him, "Don’t you fear God, since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong." I look from the criminal to Jesus, a lifetime of regret and an eternity of hope staring at the broken body of the King of the Jews. With all the energy left in my weary body, my voice speaks the pleading of my heart, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
The Son of God turns His head toward me, the crown of thorns digging ever deeper into His scalp. He is literally bathed in blood, a sight more terrifying than anything I’ve ever seen. But then our eyes meet. Through the blood and anguish of human cruelty surrounding them, I see in His eyes the hope of generations, the very light of God staring back at me with a love I’ve never allowed myself to experience. Before He even speaks, even through the agony He is enduring, I see it in His eyes and for the first time, I know: He does love me. He does forgive me. I am more than what I have been. I am His. His swollen lips part and from the mouth of the Savior comes this blessed assurance:
"Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise."
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