Thus was His death-bed a cross of wood on which they laid Him, drawing His arms apart, as if He embraced the whole wide world, and revealing His very heart, which beats with love for men. East and West, North and South, so do His hands ever point, appealing thus to all that need Him. They nailed His hands and His feet, holding Him for ever, as they thought, in that attitude of shame. They offered Him wine, mingled with myrrh, but He refused it. No narcotic, no anęsthetic, was to cloud His intelligence, or ease His pain. He would satisfy Justice, not evoke pity--conquer Death, not compromise with death's agony. He would drink no wine, except new in His Kingdom, and not for Himself, but with His disciples. All that touched His parched lips was vinegar--the sweet turned sour--and this He only drank because it strengthened Him for final suffering, for a worse affliction even than thirst. It was by hyssop, the plant of Passover, that they raised the sponge to His face, putting hyssop and sponge on that kind of reed which had been His scepter; which meant that without atonement for men's sins He could never reign over men's hearts. Simple indeed was His regalia--that hyssop His only laurel, that sponge His only chalice.
In anguish, as they pierced Him, His voice breathed a prayer, not for Himself, but for His torturers--that they, as sinners, might be pardoned. "Father," said He, "forgive them; for they know not what they do." It was the first of those sayings which, though distributed, as if casually, over the Four Gospels, yet, when collected, are found to be seven; the sacred and perfect number. In death, as in life, He was the complete Word of God to man, teaching forgiveness to soldiers, giving guidance to His mother, sfggesting duty to John the beloved disciple, granting absolution to the thief, acknowledging God's stern righteousness by quoting the Crucifixion Psalm, confessing physical needs like thirst, and, finally, declaring His unaltered faith in His Heavenly Father. He who prayed could answer the sinner's prayer. He who was obedient even unto death could still command a disciple. He who was forsaken was able still to trust the Father who never forsakes us.
"By this Sign," Conquer
They raised His cross until the dead wood pointed heavenwards, as it still points heavenwards in lands unknown to Judea. The wood was dead; but as He hung there it blossomed, like Aaron's rod, into all the loveliest virtues of love and peace and purity. From a symbol of disgrace, like the gallows, the Cross is to-day the sign by which we conquer. In the hilt of a sword, on the masts of our ships, on the flags under which we dwell, and the jewelry with which we are adorned, in our hymns, over our graves, and above our churches, the Cross is ever an honored memorial.
As He prayed for their forgiveness, the day turned to darkness. It was the inevitable response of God to His plea. For three long hours, He whose eye sees all looked not on their offenses; and it meant that on the Saviour also no ray of light could shine. From that universal guilt of man, He, as Redeemer, could not be excluded ; and He alone could bear the penalty, for He alone knew what penalty was due. As He had said, they in their iniquity were ignorant of what harm they did, since evil makes men blind to evil. For this reason they could only be forgiven because He suffered. As the people themselves said--Saving others, Himself He could not save. If His garments were of righteousness, then their removal from Him and His exposure meant, in symbol, that sin was imputed to Him. If He had sat as Judge, He ought to have smitten His persecutors. He could only-to use our phrase--"compound the felony" by Himself accepting the sentence which otherwise He must have pronounced.
No help came to Him. John stood there, but in this situation he was impotent. All he could do was to obey the Redeemer, and lead the weeping mother to his home. He who calls on us to forsake kindred for His sake, Himself made this sacrifice for our sake. Yet His providence did not waver. There was a home for the widow. There was a paradise for the thief. But let it not be forgotten that the widow, though ever worthy of tenderest reverence, took no part in His redemptive work. She was lovingly removed, and her tears are not associated with our salvation.
Christ and His Bible
In those fearful hours, what occupied His mind was the Bible that He loved. Fortified in advance, He knew that it was no strange thing which had come upon Him. There, near Him, were the soldiers, as foretold, parting His garments among them, and casting lots for His raiment--of which raiment we hear nothing further. With supreme wisdom, it was dispersed. If the Apostles had retained it, the immediate effect would have been the institution of relicworship. His cross has also gone, and the thorns from His brow. Nothing of His remains to us, except Himself; and material relics, whatever they are supposed to be, only obscure Him.
When He spoke, it was in the very words of the Psalmist--"Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani." Not knowing the Scriptures, the multitudes misunderstood the Christ. He was not evoking Elijah to save Him. No prophet, no patriarch, no saint, however sacred, can redeem mankind; and, so far from Elijah saving Him (or us), He was Elijah's Saviour, as Elijah had testified. "My God, My God," was what He said, "why hast Thou forsaken Me?" Grave as are the words, I know not how to express it otherwise than by saying that it was the utterance of a Son, innocent Himself, yet disowned. No longer did He speak to "the Father," but to the All-just and Omnipotent One, then exacting punishment of Him who alone knew, because He alone shared, God's righteousness.
Those executions were not without priestly attendants, who wagged their heads and rendered no answer to His question why He was abandoned. No longer did they say, "This man is a sinner who deserves to die." Yet, since He was not a sinner, the Master must have been suffering for others-to admit which would have been, for the priests, an act of repentance, a change of heart and mind. Where they were blind, the thief understood. He suddenly stopped his taunts, and rebuked his comrade, so confessing the Christ. And Jesus, forsaken Himself, did not forsake that new and solitary friend.
"It is Finished"
All Nature--the flowers, the wind, the rainbow, the fire--teaches of God; and so is it with darkness, which, invading the day, shadows forth His displeasure. Let us suppose that it was an eclipse of the sun--in itself a scientific certainty--the coincidence with His expiation would be none the less of a miracle; and, for Him, the gradual lifting of that black gloom was a Divine signal. As the light returned, He cried in triumph, loud above all turmoil, "It is finished." He, who did nothing by halves, paid the debt to the uttermost farthing, and in His heaven there is no night. "Father," He said, more gently, "into Thy hands I commend My spirit." His conscious Sonship was restored, He spoke no longer of "My God." The Father, the Son, and the Spirit returned, with His death, to their everlasting Tri-unity; and were included, as at His baptism, in one brief, sufficient utterance. God and man were reconciled.
Since His redeeming work was finished, He waited no longer for death. He did not endure pain merely for pain's sake, but "gave up the ghost"--which was His to give up; and while the thieves lived on, He hung there dead. Pilate marveled that He should die so quickly, and the soldiers also did not think that the death was natural. Death itself proved Him Divine; and the Centurion who saw it, remembering His words to Pilate, declared: "Truly, this was the Son of God." The veil of the Temple was, like His flesh, rent from head to foot, and torn aside; the Holy of Holies in the Son of Man was revealed. His altars are now manifest to all. In His salvation there are no priestly secrets. A child can learn His oracles.
He had said that if they forbade the people to praise Him, the very stones would cry out. The mountains do not sin; and, less hard than men's hearts, they were rent asunder at His death, and an earthquake, as unforeseeable to science as an eclipse is calculable, rolled forth His dirge. It was the rock saluting the Rock of Ages--the dust worshiping Him who would never be dust.
The scoffs ceased. The crowds slunk away. The soldiers roughly brake the legs of the thieves and hastened their end. But Jesus was already dead, and not a bone of Him was broken. He rose again, not crippled or maimed, but all-powerful to help. One soldier plunged a spear into His side, piercing the heart, but even this outrage added to His glory. There came forth a cleansing and redeeming stream of blood and water, in fuller measure than from His hands and His feet--an abundant Atonement, not of service merely, but of a Love unto death.