What have you done to him? Do you not know who this is? Lord, I don't want to be a part of this. Please, don't lay him here! How can I stand guard over his broken body? How can I look on this the rest of my existence?
What are you doing? Please, do not use me for this. I wasn't designed for this! Please, this is my Lord. No, not into his hands! His hands.. Oh no not his hands! Oh..OhOh.. I wish that I never was.
Wait, what is it that you are making? Am I to be a crossbeam in the palace? A cross! No, not that! Oh.what have you done?! Don't you know who this is? My Lord, I am so sorry! Why have they done this to you? Do not put me on his back. Can't you see his back? Can't you see what you have done to his back? Oh.. that I had never been formed. Why was I made for this?
Peter stood staring at the cross where Jesus had hung only hours ago. The blood stains drove a spike into his own heart. He knelt down and with his knife he carved two pieces of wood from the cross. He drilled a hole through the top of one. He then fashioned his own cross, tied it, and slipped it over his neck. "I will wear this.
I will never forget what I did to you, My Lord."
John wept silently over the piece of wood that had held his dearest friend. How could this have happened? Why did it end like this? He spotted the nails that were driven into Jesus' hands. He picked them up, slipped them into the bag tied at his waist. He walked away.
"I will remember your healing hands."
Mary stood at the tomb. Where have they taken him? What have they done now?
"He's not there! Mary, he's not there! He has risen!" the rock cried out. "He's not here. He's alive! He's alive!"
Darlene is a writer who travels with her husband, Mark across rural United States as he builds power plants.