The scene now changes to the barrackyard behind Pilate's palace. The scourging is just over. I station myself in a corner and kneel down and join both my hands and look across in the direction of the pillar. They have cut the cords, only now, that had held Him fast since His capture last night. They have slipped the cords free of the iron ring which kept Him supported and Our Lord sinks down, first on to His knees, then falls fulllength on His side.
From my corner I look over, fixing my eyes on the face of my Christ. The fairest among the sons of men! But now there is no beauty in Him nor comeliness. He lies in His own Blood at the base of the pillar. His mouth is open wide, for He can breathe only with the greatest difficulty. His chest heaves with each fresh effort, and each effort is quite audible.
Is this all true? As I listen to the gasping of this poor Man, as I look at that Body all torn in such shocking fashion, as I note the spots where the Blood has splashed the pavement, as I watch His eyes now opening and looking over at me, now closing again as He feels another throb of pain convulse His whole Body, can I believe all this and remain indifferent to its appeal? This is what I am worth. This is what God considers my soul to be worth. This is the effort of God to write the most marvellous love story ever written, the love of God for man.
Did they drag Him, by the hair of the head, along the ground, from the base of the pillar to the low stool where further torments will be devised? Can I see them picking their steps carefully so as to avoid staining their boots with this Blood? Or do they, perhaps, trample carelessly upon It?
"Then did they spit in His face, and platting a crown of thorns they put it on His head. When a man is ordained a priest, just before the end of the ceremony, the bishop sits on his throne with mitre on his head. The newly ordained kneels before him, his hands placed in the hands of the bishop. "Do you promise," he is asked, "to your prelate obedience and reverence?" "I promise." And the bishop leans forward to embrace him and bless him.
A great High Priest is seated here in the barrackyard, a crimson chasuble round about His shoulders. Before Him let me kneel now. He too would have my obedience and my reverence, especially if I am a priest or an aspirant to the priesthood. "Do you promise it?" He asks. "Promitto. Yes, with all my heart I promise." And the Prelate leans forward to cmbrace me and bless me. His "mitre" hurts even to touch lightly as I embrace. What agony it must have meant for Him! As the years move on, shall "obedience and reverence" to Him entail for me an everincreasing sharing in that agony?
Passion of Christ, strengthen me. Do not permit me to be separated from You. If suffering be the link that will bind me to You, give me suffering, but with it Your grace to bear and accept.