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If nothing more, simply look. Look to the man on the cross and see his victory won. See Jesus the saviour and wonder at his sacrifice. His love. His obedience. See Him.

“LAST DAYS” The voice of John the revolutionary >>>

Pain cries cascade down the hill; a torrent, a wash, a wave consumes as sound of wood against metal pierces atmosphere. Air growing colder. I rise. We all rise. This is it. This is happening. It is real.

Blood shoots through veins; I shiver as warmth escapes me. I long to be anywhere … but here. To be warm. To have never journeyed here with Him; here. To this place of death. Adventure should not have led me here. Should never lead here.

Last night I saw them; scurrying ants in the city beneath. Men and Women trapped in the festival of ignorance. And now I wish to be them. To know nothing of revolution. Desperate for the comfort of being unaware, uncaring, unknowing.


Thud, scream erupts. Its reverberation shakes me to knowing. Knowing I could be nowhere but here. Could be no one else but who I have become. His beloved. His.


I look toward the sound of pain. I lift my eyes toward the hill of death. Where does my help come from? From Him. I hold myself. Arms gripped tightly around. Thoughts pound. Brutal light of realisation hanging before my eyes.

Accusation fills the space between my flinches of horror. ‘You should have never joined this revolution.’ A dark voice and a laugh that I don’t recognise and hope I never do,

‘Call this a revolution. Failure?’

Thud, Darkness covering over.

Thud, Each strike escorted with noise of pain.

Then nothing, for a moment; silence. Mind emptied by agony till breaking through the nothingness; burns a single imagining. I watched three tracings of humanity walk past and now in my mind I see them; laying each on their cross; becoming one with their tree of shame. Fixed so permanently so finally to wood. Softness of flesh and bone; futile in the battle against aggression, metal and duty. The curse of thorn wrapped around His brow. My curse his crown. My shame – His glory.


Thud. I look to the sky. Clouds scarred by the sound. Each torn and exhausted. Air frozen by darkness, birds silenced by terror. The whole hillside; silent. 11:58. Peter begins to run. Not away. No; not this time. Peter runs toward the summit. Enveloped. Shrouded. Darkness thick with dread, I reach out expecting to touch this blanket that covers me so heavily.

We follow in the wake of Peter’s enthusiasm; his need to see Him again. We walk somehow, darkness breathed in to our lungs; each breath rapidly filling our core. The city, the hill, the cross, Him all hidden in impenetrable darkness. Everything silent. Everything deathly. The whole creation immortalised in the mortality of this revolution act.

I recognise Peter’s need to see Him. But still there is nothing I would ever want to see less, less than Him … hanging there. I have to see Him. Who else is there to go to? Three years; Jesus has been the source of our joy, He has been our encourager. Our everything.

Something good happens; we run to Him.

Something funny happens; we run to Him and delight in His hysterical laughter.

Something bad happens; we run to Him and weep with Him.

So I have to be with Him now. I need him.

No matter what I have done have become, am now, will be I need Him.

I run to him.

Does He need us? Need me?

I see Him. At the centre of it all. Arms outstretched.

Peter at the foot of the cross, head bowed face pressed into the ground. Tears mingle with the awful soil of this place. Golgotha. Weeping and repentance rest here; For this moment beauty in the midst of horror. If only Pete would look up he’d see Jesus smiling through the pain. No breath enough to utter; only His eyes to speak. To smile. Filled with compassion. But Peter retreats knowing not the forgiveness that flows with His blood. Peter pushes me away. He doesn’t know or refuses to know that even his betrayal is been forgiven. All forgiven. Everything forgiven. Look. See. Forgiveness hanging there. Revolution’s victory hanging there.

We must be near.

Nothing I can do for Him. I look. If I focus on Him I’ll forget everything else. Forget the beaten, bruised, crushed, flesh that holds Him there. His eyes fade as swathes of pain ricochet through His body. I gasp. I blink; that look. His eyes burn.

He is the revolution. Revolution fills His eyes. This is it. He is fighting. He is winning. This is victory. This death, this pain, this moment. It is finished.


Lord Jesus you invite us to look to you and to see you. To see you in the pages of scripture To see you in the face of a stranger or a friend, To see you in the glory and fragility of your creation. To see you in this moment of remembering.

Lord Jesus you invite us to look to you and to see you To see you, and to see the power of your victory. To see you, and to see the beauty of your sacrifice To see you, and to see the completeness of your forgiveness. To see you, and to see the warmth of your welcome. To see you, and to see who we were made to be.

Holy Spirit lead us to the foot of the cross. Holy Spirit open our eyes to see Jesus. Holy Spirit open the eyes of our town to the saviour.

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