It dripped from his feet, drops of blood onto the hard, beaten, unforgiving ground.
There he hung and I could not save him.
There he hung for my shame, my sins, and my choices.
I could see the outline of his muscles, the skin torn from his knees where he had fallen, the blood dried upon his feet where the nails had been driven.
I could not release him.
I could not relieve his human suffering.
I could not stop this crucifixion.
I sat helpless, hopeless and guilt ridden with his blood on my hands.
Yet, when I looked into his eyes he did not cast me off, punish, or demean me.
He expected nothing in return and in that moment that exchange I learned how to truly love.
Beneath the feet of Jesus Christ on that Good Friday I loved.
Copyright 2015 Lori Hadorn-Disselkamp