It is three o’clock, and the world comes to a stop. All Holy Week we have been watching the final disaster draw near; on Palm Sunday, having sung our King into Jerusalem with palms and hosannas, we filled our mouths with barbs and jeers and the unctuous solicitations of the Pharisees (‘Your Excellency, we recall that this imposter said…’) Now the sentence is passed, on the sentencers as much as the sentenced, and we have come to the place of execution. Bone-dry silence falls. Surely there is some mistake… surely God will not permit…? But the Devil is allowed to see the victory he has so long desired; all, to his own astonishment, has gone entirely to plan; his triumph is within his grasp. Has he done it? Has he not only destroyed God’s son but, better, caused humanity to destroy God’s son? Surely he has; he has driven his opponent out of the world, and humanity is his; if has also pleased God to accept the sacrifice, so much the better. What now stands in his way? Only a few things unsettle him: those sharp observant glances among the scattered remnants, their mutterings of recognition and realisation. And the mother; always the mother; this second Eve whom he cannot bring to ruin.
Ah, holy Jesus, how hast thou offended,That we to judge thee have in hate pretended?By foes derided, by thine own rejected,O most afflicted!Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee?Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee!’Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee;I crucified thee.Lo, the Good Shepherd for the sheep is offered;The slave hath sinned, and the Son hath suffered.For our atonement, while we nothing heeded,God interceded.For me, kind Jesus, was thy incarnation,Thy mortal sorrow, and thy life’s oblation;Thy death of anguish and thy bitter passion,For my salvation.Therefore, kind Jesus, since I cannot pay thee,I do adore thee, and will ever pray thee,Think on thy pity and thy love unswerving,Not my deserving.
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