His Death.
He did not die for one…He died for all.
Mary Magdalene's POV
“My Deliverer did not deserve such cruelty…” I whispered, my voice breaking as I sat beside the tomb.
Around me, sorrow hung heavy in the air. I saw it in the eyes of the other Marys,His mother, and the mother of James and John. And even in the silence of His disciples. Grief had stolen our words.
“I mean… He saved me,” I said, adjusting my veil as though it could hide both my face and my pain. “Saved me from death… from shame. I didn’t even have the kind of faith like that woman who suffered for twelve long years yet He still chose me.”
My voice cracked, sobs rising like waves I could no longer hold back.
“But meeting Jesus… changed everything. It changed the course of my life forever.”
“Peace, my sister,” Mary, the mother of James and John, said softly, pulling me closer. But even her comfort could not quiet the storm within me.
Mary’s POV — “A Mother at the Cross”
I saw my son being dragged out, his body pulled roughly by the guards as though he were nothing more than a criminal. My heart shattered in my chest.
“Leave him alone!” I cried, my voice breaking, my hands reaching for him.
One of them shoved me aside so easily… as if I weighed nothing.
Ah… if this were Nazareth on a normal day, I would have dealt with that one personally. I didn’t raise my son just to come and be pushed by somebody’s child.
But this was different, i was not in control here.
My son turned his head and looked at me and even then… even then… he smiled.
That same gentle smile he used to give me as a boy whenever I worried too much. And he gave me that small nod as if to say, “Mother, it’s okay.”
Okay? How could this be okay?
My tears turned into loud, uncontrollable screams.
“My son! Please! He is innocent!” I cried out But the crowd swallowed my voice.
It was like grief had competition… and I was losing.
They placed the cross on his shoulders, and I watched him carry it… step by step… to Golgotha.
Each step felt like it was crushing my own bones. Slow… heavy… painful…
God forgive me, but my mind was trying to survive what my eyes could not.
They spat on him. Mocked him. Beat him.
My son. My child.
The same boy I once chased around the house because he refused to come inside after playing in the dust. The same boy who would smile and say, “Just a little more time, Mother.”
Oh… how I wish this was one of those moments.
How I wish I could just call him back inside again.
But this time… no one was listening.
They pierced his side, and I felt something in me tear open. I begged them to stop. I pleaded like a desperate woman with nothing left to lose.
There were times he spoke of this… strange things. About suffering. About being lifted up. About saving people and I would stop him. “Enough,” I would say. “Don’t speak like that. “Sometimes I would even say, “Please, not today. I just cooked. Let me rest.” I thought it was just one of his deep talks again.
But this…
This was no parable. This was real.
As they nailed him to the cross, I could not bear it. I bowed my head, my body trembling.
The sound…The sound of the nails…
It will never leave me.
Each strike felt like it landed on my own chest.
Blood flowed down from his legs… to his thighs… staining everything.
Too much blood. Too much pain.
I wanted to run to him. To hold him. To take his place.
What kind of mother watches her child suffer and does nothing?
God… I would have taken that cross in a heartbeat.
Let it be me, not him.
I looked at his face, Pain… written all over it and yet… there was still something else there. Something I could not fully understand.
Peace… in the middle of agony.
Then, in the last hour, the sky grew dark.
Not evening-dark…This was different. This was wrong. Even the sun seemed to say, “No… I cannot watch this.”
And honestly… I agreed.
And then I heard his voice. “It is finished.”
Finished? No…
Nothing about this felt finished. It felt like everything was just beginning to break.
No, my son… I am not finished loving you . I am not finished holding you. I am not finished being your mother.
Then…He gave up his spirit.
And I cried. I cried until there were no tears left… and still my heart continued to weep. Completely broken. No strength. No composure. No dignity left. Just a mother… crying over her son.
Later… much later… when the noise had faded and the world had gone quiet…
I sat with my pain.
And I began to understand. This was not just my loss, It was not just my son, this was not just pain. This was purpose.
He did not die for one…He died for all.
Even for those who pushed me aside. Even for those who nailed him there.
And I won’t lie…That part still confuses me, because if it were me?
Hmm…Let’s just say forgiveness would not be my first reaction.
And as I sat there in the silence… broken, empty… I remembered the angel, His words, that my son would save his people.
Save.
I used to think it meant joy… victory… a crown. I did not know it would look like this.
A cross. Blood. Pain I could not stop.
And then it finally settled in my heart. He was not taken. He was given.
My son… my Jesus…This was how he chose to save them
.