Back to the real world, or so it is as I perceive it . . . .

I look up and see a sight no mother should ever behold. But what can I do? I knew that this day would come. We have all known that a final atonement was to be. An honor; a privilege. I held him in my arms when he was born. My firstborn. My oldest son. Nailed to beams and put on display like a common criminal. I hear the angry mob mocking him. If they only knew; could only have beheld the angels.
I want to scream out that he is the Christ, he is our messiah. I want them all to know what I know. He was virgin-born. I know this better than anyone, even better than my husband, who was told by angels. Oh, privilege. Oh, agony. Am I to be grateful for this redemption? How can I be? How can I not be? O, my God, my God, I believed, and I knew. But this agony. I was there when he first moved inside of me. I felt the pain of his birth. And now I feel the pain of his death. More vicious than the delivery of his life is this act of delivery of my life—of all our lives. And what ungrateful beasts we are. The jeering, the laughter and the blasphemy of this crowd. I cannot watch this, but I cannot leave him to suffer alone. I cannot yell out. I cannot tell them, convince them, of anything that he told them, or of anything I heard from God.
I loved him, I reared him and I learned from him. And for him to be delivered up on this day! Of all days! It would be blasphemous were this crowd right. If he were a usurper, a liar, a lunatic, it would be so wrong. But this is the final atonement, the payment of all debts. If this crowd only realized what sin this is, they would cheer for a different reason. O, God, this hurts so much! This is not even a common crucifixion—they beat his back off of him. Oh, he cannot even stand. And his face, his head. So much blood. On Passover! Oh, Israel, you have sacrificed your lamb. My son!
I have seen angels, I have seen water turned to wine. I knew not any man, but I delivered my son. For what? I know I should not question, and I knew this had to be. I had been taught the scriptures. But my King is dying, and my child is in pain! I know now how the scriptures meant for him to redeem us. He is not political, but he is sacrificial. Israel is still held in the grip of Rome, but no longer of sin.
As my world grows dark, so does the world around me. Oh, how cold I am. To be left in the care of a friend of my son’s, and to hear him scream out that God has forsaken him. If I cannot watch, how then could the Holy One? Oh, God, you have known him longer than I, but you must turn away. My flesh will not allow it. I am selfish and must have him in my sight as a long as possible. My soul may be redeemed by this, but my heart is broken. Mankind has destroyed the body of the Savior, and the handmaid of the Lord.
Will they not believe this darkness? There is no eclipse. Will they not believe the dead walking among us? Do they not hear his words? What kind of man could be kind as he is taunted and brutalized in this manner? And yet he is. Oh, do you not behold him? Mankind is so corrupt. We mock goodness. I know, but I am tormented by this gift. I am selfish and pained. This conflict! Is it sin to wish redemption without this pain? Is it sin to just want to keep my son safe? To wish that he be left alone? He is a King, his birth was attended by angels, and his death shared with these thieves. And yet I see this suffering as mine. I dare to think that I know how Jahweh feels at this moment. I have given birth and I have given death. But do I not know some of the pain of Jahweh? Have I not seen his miracles—from the birth of my son to the wine to the restoration of the lame and blind? Oh, God, spare me! Please do not take my son! Don’t you see his pain? Leave me my oldest child! Oh, Lord, I am so sorry. I long for the luxury of leaving my senses. I want to lose my mind. I want to not feel this, know this, be aware of this pain. But how then can these people believe? If his mother was insane, then maybe the son is, too.
Your Will. Your plan. I am blessed among women. I know what no man can know. I know who he is, and what this means. I feel this death. I know what no other woman could ever know. The pain of his delivery and the pain of my deliverance are inextricably intertwined. I know that I bore the savior, the Messiah. I found favor with the Lord, the God of Israel. I have known who this Jesus is for his entire life. I fed the King and I held him. I am part of miracles. I did not just bring a man into this world to die, but to save Israel and the world. And now I watch his suffering as I have never seen it before. I have seen the perfection of my son, and I have experienced the depravity of my fellow man. How ironic and agonizing that this curse of death is paid by this blessing--my blessing.
And I know. I know. While others believe, I know conclusively that this is the Messiah. I have known this for longer than I have known my son. And I know what this means. I realize what this is about. I need no leap of faith. I have conclusive proof, and I am convinced. I know who he is! I truly am blessed to know this. But oh, how this hurts. He says it is finished, and they stab his lifeless body, but this is not over for me. This pain will be with me until I die. I know what this means, and I feel this as truly as anything I have ever felt. But these memories will not leave. I cannot forget. I will never lose sight of this. Oh, my husband thinks he knows, and my other children believe that they know, but I feel this to the deepest recesses of my soul. If anyone here knows this, it is I. And I known the pain. He has left me twice. He left my body on the night of his birth and he leaves my life as he leaves his body.
I have known God, have looked into his eyes, and had the privilege of seeing him take his first breath, and felt his tiny fingers wrap around my hand. God, the son, my son. My son was my connection-- mankind's connection-- to Holy God. I have loved God in human form. I am blessed.


(Bear in mind that I am protestant and have never believed that Mary was sinless, nor that she was a virgin until death. I can use scriptures to back this, but let's not get into that. Believe what you believe, and I will believe what I believe. Whatever that is, I want to state that this woman knew agony. And this woman was blessed. Even if it were all fiction, every aspect of this story is the greatest story ever told.)

--Hooper