The Sorrowful Mysteries

The Agony in the Garden

He is coming toward me and the look upon His Face tells me He is agonizing. Come rest here a while, I am your rock. Sit beside me and lean on me. I begin to hear Him pray in a whisper. His friends are nearby but do not hear Him as I do. They are reclining and appear puzzled. For the moment, I was distracted but this man is in anguish and I am here for Him. I feel His flesh upon my hard soil; I become moist as He perspires. His voice is warm, soft, eloquent, prayerful. He prays, "Father, if this cup cannot pass…."as He sweats droplets of blood upon me. His voice becomes saddened and tortured. His soul grieves, not for Himself, but for all men. If I had a real heart, it would be breaking as I hear Him pray…"Thy Will be done." He gets up several times to speak a word or two to His friends, then He returns, each time more pained in spirit. He practically lies upon me and now, I understand it is my moment, my purpose for being. I am His rock.

The Scourging at the Pillar

Soldiers are bringing a man toward me and are tying His hands around my circumference tightly, so tightly I can feel his chest and his heartbeat upon my white cool column. They tie His legs and feet so He cannot move about. I feel His head and hair as His face is forced violently against me while they rudely switch Him repeatedly. I feel His voice in vibration as He tries to control the groanings of pain from the fierce blows upon His body. These soldiers are relentless in their torture of him almost as though they are the devil themselves. This beaten body is beginning to hang heavily on me and if the lashings do not soon stop, they will kill him right here upon me. My white beauty is now splattered with stripped flesh and blood. Now I know my purpose, at least for a while, I beheld a King and Glory touched me.

The Crowning with Thorns

They have pulled me from the briars and are bringing me to the palace. Someone is placing me with others like me into a circular wreath. I wonder what we will adorn. I see a beaten man being brought toward us, hands crudely tied behind His back, bloodied in ripped and stained clothing. They lift us up and place us upon His head. We are a crown of thorns. Not do they gently place us there, but they press us so our tips cut through His head, brow, scalp and then they mock Him and spit upon Him. I feel their spittle and I begin to feel the blood from His head dampen me. His blood that dampens me drips toward his brow and down His face. My place is the center front just above His mid brow and if I could, I would not press so hardly. If I could pray, I would ask His Father to lift me off and out of this thorny crown of torture. Now I know why I came to be at this point in time….part of a thorny crown to adorn an Innocent Lamb.

The Carrying of the Cross

Wood of a cross! That is what they have made of me. Taken from a mighty tree, they splintered me and formed me into a cross. They bring me to a man who will carry me. He hardly looks as though He could carry much; He is a beaten man, weakened from tortures of which I know nothing except that they are mocking Him and heaving me across His shoulder. My whole weight is upon Him as He drags me across the ground. With each stone I am scraped over, I dig deeper into His flesh opening a new wound on this already bloodied body. Why are they doing this to Him? I see wailing women as we pass by. I see men with soulful glances. No one is able to do anything to stop this torturous journey as I begin to realize an innocent man is dragging me inch by painful inch. It is not me who wishes to penalize this man but I am causing Him great pain and it hurts me to know that the weight of my wood is torturing Him. Blessed relief, an unwilling man is ordered to help Him carry me. The innocent man would have died right here, had not the Cyrinian been ordered to help. The arduous journey continues.

The Crucifixion and Death

They take me off His shoulders and lay me down on the ground and throw this man upon me, stripped of everything except a simple cloth to cover His body. They stretch his arms across the shorter crossbar and pound nails into each Hand. I hear His cries of pain and I want to cry with Him because they are also nailing me. Then they take His feet, cross them, pull them, and with all of their force again pound nails into His feet and into me. O His cries torture me. We are hiked up and with great force dropped into the hole they have dug and His body is rended with even greater force and tortuous pain and He gives a loud cry which is more than anyone can bear to hear. I feel His flesh, his warm blood ooze down and across my width and length. They have also nailed a sign above His head…mocking Him with the words, "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews." Slowly I feel His flesh become cold and His blood conjeal. His breathing is labored and after several hours an end is drawing nigh. I hear Him utter His last breath, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." My purpose for being is a sign for the many. Soon friends will come to take Him down from me. I see the tears of His friends and His Mother who has agonized much for love of her Son, Jesus. Here I stand, once a proud tree, now a SIGN of this SACRIFICIAL LAMB.

Mel Patterson © 2004