Jesus is Stripped
The soldiers roughly pull your blood sodden clothes from Your back, sending new waves of searing pain to rack Your poor body. You stand naked in the sight of the remaining crowd—and all Your creation—silently waiting for the last insult: being nailed to a cross like a common criminal.
Cursed. Hateful. Forgotten. Haven’t You suffered enough for my sake?
Creator and everlasting King of the universe, You stand in front of us in broken flesh. A mere man like me—or so it seems. The Romans take your garments to divide amongst themselves. Your Crown they cannot take, nor would anyone dare, if they could only see You in Your glory.
But Your glory is in this torn and fleshly body, the same as that of Your children; those You deigned to set aside Your heavenly crown to save.
Lord Jesus, give me the robe of righteousness that You have woven for me through Your Passion. Never again let me soil so costly a garment.
