Were You There?
Were you there when they
crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble; tremble.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble; tremble.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
This
old hymn has always touched my heart whenever I’ve heard it and my mind rushes
directly to the day of Christ’s crucifixion. “And He, bearing His cross, went out to a place
called the Place of a Skull, which is called in Hebrew, Golgotha, where they crucified Him, and two others with
Him, one on either side, and Jesus in the center.” John 19:17-18
I
began to wonder how I would have reacted to this if I had been there and had no
knowledge of Jesus. So I wrote this story many, many years ago and
just came across it recently and felt I should share it with my friends.
The
mob pressed closer. The stench of sweat was overpowering; dirty,
unwashed beggars and people of other classes mingled together, working
themselves into frenzy, like a herd of frightened cattle.
My heart beat faster and my own body felt clammy as I pressed forward with the throng of people. They were yelling, “Crucify him; crucify him”. I was not tall enough to see over the crowds lining the street, but I knew they were watching a condemned man on his way to being hung on a cross to die. They were headed out the gate of the city. I looked up at a hill standing stark against the blue of the sky.
My mind was reeling; searching for reason. What was a crucifixion to me? I cared neither for the Jews or the Romans; I was only a visitor to this place. I wasn’t even sure of why I was here. I wasn’t a sadist who enjoyed seeing the pain of others, nor was I a person who followed crowds. Yet today some unknown feeling closed in on me; demanding me to witness another Rome’s atrocities.
At last they reached the hill. I heard someone call it Golgotha, which meant, ‘place of the skull’. My thoughts were suddenly stilled as I heard the blows of a heavy hammer driving nails through soft flesh. I cringed at the sound and felt nausea began to rise in my throat. Then there was stillness; heavy and fearful; broken with the thud of the heavy cross as it dropped into place. A sigh like the wind, rushed through the crowd in a wave. I looked up and dark against that same blue sky stood the cross. They nailed a sign above his head which read, “King of the Jews”.
There were groups of people here and there; some were crying and I heard some saying, he was the Son of God. Although a stranger, I knew of the Israelite’s God. I also heard that they looked for the coming of a savior. Surely this sad figure hanging on the cross was not the one they were looking for. As the soldiers were putting a couple of other men on crosses, I was overcome with a longing to get closer; to see this man that was slumped down; the weight of his body hanging from the outward spread of his pierced hands.
I began pushing my way through the mob; my breath came in harsh gasps and perspiration dripped from my face. At last, breathless, I stood before the cross. I only glanced at the hands and feet dripping with dark blood which fell softly to the ground. It was the face that held my attention. It was neither a face of beauty nor of ugliness; bruised beyond recognition, but through the dirt, sweat and blood, it held a certain radiance. I looked into his face until I could look no longer.
As I turned to leave this place of death, I heard a sigh and the soft words fell on my ears, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” With a motion, almost spastic, I turned back and looked again into his face. My heart throbbed; my knees weakened and I dropped to the ground and began to weep. My tears fell in streams and I, without shame, cried loudly, “I know you are the Son of God; the Savior of the world. Forgive me, oh God!”
I wanted to tear that cross from the ground and hold the Son in my arms and offer myself in His place. I reached out to the cross, but the soldiers, drunk with wine and power pushed me back. With curses and threats they held me off. I fought, I swore, I screamed, but at last, exhausted, I fell sobbing to the ground.
My heart beat faster and my own body felt clammy as I pressed forward with the throng of people. They were yelling, “Crucify him; crucify him”. I was not tall enough to see over the crowds lining the street, but I knew they were watching a condemned man on his way to being hung on a cross to die. They were headed out the gate of the city. I looked up at a hill standing stark against the blue of the sky.
My mind was reeling; searching for reason. What was a crucifixion to me? I cared neither for the Jews or the Romans; I was only a visitor to this place. I wasn’t even sure of why I was here. I wasn’t a sadist who enjoyed seeing the pain of others, nor was I a person who followed crowds. Yet today some unknown feeling closed in on me; demanding me to witness another Rome’s atrocities.
At last they reached the hill. I heard someone call it Golgotha, which meant, ‘place of the skull’. My thoughts were suddenly stilled as I heard the blows of a heavy hammer driving nails through soft flesh. I cringed at the sound and felt nausea began to rise in my throat. Then there was stillness; heavy and fearful; broken with the thud of the heavy cross as it dropped into place. A sigh like the wind, rushed through the crowd in a wave. I looked up and dark against that same blue sky stood the cross. They nailed a sign above his head which read, “King of the Jews”.
There were groups of people here and there; some were crying and I heard some saying, he was the Son of God. Although a stranger, I knew of the Israelite’s God. I also heard that they looked for the coming of a savior. Surely this sad figure hanging on the cross was not the one they were looking for. As the soldiers were putting a couple of other men on crosses, I was overcome with a longing to get closer; to see this man that was slumped down; the weight of his body hanging from the outward spread of his pierced hands.
I began pushing my way through the mob; my breath came in harsh gasps and perspiration dripped from my face. At last, breathless, I stood before the cross. I only glanced at the hands and feet dripping with dark blood which fell softly to the ground. It was the face that held my attention. It was neither a face of beauty nor of ugliness; bruised beyond recognition, but through the dirt, sweat and blood, it held a certain radiance. I looked into his face until I could look no longer.
As I turned to leave this place of death, I heard a sigh and the soft words fell on my ears, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” With a motion, almost spastic, I turned back and looked again into his face. My heart throbbed; my knees weakened and I dropped to the ground and began to weep. My tears fell in streams and I, without shame, cried loudly, “I know you are the Son of God; the Savior of the world. Forgive me, oh God!”
I wanted to tear that cross from the ground and hold the Son in my arms and offer myself in His place. I reached out to the cross, but the soldiers, drunk with wine and power pushed me back. With curses and threats they held me off. I fought, I swore, I screamed, but at last, exhausted, I fell sobbing to the ground.
How
long I lay there, I don’t know; time was meaningless to me. I heard
thunder and lightning crashing across the sky, which aroused me and I looked up
at the Son, who was now scarcely breathing. “Son of God, I should be
hanging there; I am a sinner not you.” In that moment an
overwhelming love filled my heart, mind and soul and I knew a peace such as I
had never known. I was changed forever.
Were you there
when he rose up from the grave?
Were you there when he rose up from the grave?
Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble; tremble.
Were you there when he rose up from the grave?
Were you there when he rose up from the grave?
Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble; tremble.
Were you there when he rose up from the grave?
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