Reflection for Good Friday based on Isaiah 52:13-15 and John 18 & 19
‘See, my servant shall prosper;
he shall be exalted and lifted up,
and shall be very high’.
A high as the living tree
hewn with sharpened axe,
and roughly sawn;
no carpenter’s skills evident here,
just functional in form,
propped against the Praetorium wall,
waiting and ready to bear the weight
of the condemned.
Across the city in the garden, night has fallen
like an inky cloak over the olive trees,
and shadows flit and torches flicker,
vibrating with the sound of footsteps,
the clink of weapons,
and the leaves rustle with a quiet
breath of betrayal drawing near.
Awareness of this presence,
Jesus does not hide,
but steps forward into the darkness
as though it were already light.
“For whom are you looking?”
A rhetorical question that echoes still.
And when they answer,
He names himself—
“I am he.”
At his voice, they fall back,
as though the earth itself remembers
who stands before them.
Yet he goes with them.
Bound – not by rope,
but by love.
He goes alone, surrounded by accusers,
the curious, the fearful. the scornful.
whilst in the courtyard, a fire burns low.
Peter stands among strangers,
warming his hands, as his courage cools.
disavowing thrice, “I do not know him.”
The words fall like ash on sackcloth.
And somewhere in the distance,
a rooster breaks the silence –
a sharp, unflinching truth
cutting through the night.
How easily we, too,
stand by other fires,
telling ourselves small denials
that feel like survival.
Before Pilate, truth stands silent.
Power shifts uneasily in its seat.
“What is truth?”
The question lingers, unanswered –
or perhaps already answered
in the wounded presence before him.
Here is the man, Pilate says.
Behold – the fragile flesh,
the bruised dignity,
the crown of thorns pressed deep.
Behold the weight of the world
resting on willing shoulders.
And the crowd cries out,
a crescendo of voices rising like a tempest:
“Crucify!”
The single word lands heavy,
again and again,
“Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!”
until it becomes a rhythm—
until it becomes a sentence.
And he carries it.
The weighted crossbeam,
and human strength appears to stumble,
a pause only to draw breath.
Wood on skin,
splinters on mercy,
each step a quiet surrender.
And at the height of Golgotha,
the sky seems to wait in abeyance.
Iron spikes pierce what once shaped galaxies.
Hands that healed are opened in pain.
And still – he does not curse.
Still – he does not turn away.
Instead, he remains.
Suspended between earth and heaven,
To become the bridge.
Below his feet,
grief gathers in human form –
a mother, a friend,
a handful of hearts breaking in unison.
“Woman, here is your son.”
So that even here, love makes room,
tending to the living
as life itself is poured out.
“I thirst.”
Not only for water,
but for a world made whole,
for hearts returned,
for love received.
Till – a final breath that carries eternity:
“It is finished.”
No cry of defeat, but a declaration –
like the closing note
of a song long promised.
Finished:
the burden borne,
the veil torn,
the distance closed.
So, we stand here,
at the foot of the cross,
with all that we are –
our betrayals,
our denials,
our questions,
our need.
We do not rush away.
We do not yet sing alleluia.
We stay.
Because here, in the breaking,
is love without measure.
Here, in the silence,
is mercy speaking.
Here, in death,
is the seed of life unseen.
Good Friday does not resolve – it reveals.
Revealing a God who will not remain distant,
but who enters both worlds
A king who does not conquer by force,
but by willing surrender.
A love that does not stop
at the edge of suffering—
but goes right through it.
And so, we wait.
In the quiet.
In the dark.
In the holy in-between.
For even now,
beneath the weight of sorrow,
something is stirring.
But just for today – we remember.
‘For that which had not been
told them, they shall see,
and that which they had not heard,
they shall contemplate’.
Linda Galvin 2026
boruachelohim 