By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Preparation for the Tomb

Preparation for the Tomb

Jesus was now lying in his Mother's arms. The nails were out of his hands and feet, and the crown of thorns was near Mary's side, blood still dripping off of it.

Mary cradled her dear Son in her arms. She touched his face gingerly, stroking his eyebrows, smoothing his hair, wiping the blood-tears from below his eyes. She kissed each one of his cheeks with utmost love and care. She could feel the cold blood on her face by that small touch.

The wind blew Mary's veil by her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the black cloth wave up and down. She could also see numerous Roman soldiers kneeling on the ground, either weeping or praying. To her left was her friend Mary of Magdala. She held Jesus' feet in her arms, kissing them and crying over them. John, her new son, stood solemnly to himself, occasionally wiping his cheeks with His hand.

But Mary didn't cry. She didn't cry, nor pray, nor become angry. She simply held her Son. She held her Baby Boy in her arms for what she knew to be the last time. Mary desperately wished to tell him in person how much she loved him. She wanted to hear him speak of God's truth and goodness and love. She wanted to watch him do his carpentry—building tables and chairs and small toys for the children of Jerusalem. She wanted to converse with him over a dinner of bread and goat's cheese.

But most of all, Mary wanted to see him smile. She loved his smile. Though he teased her sometimes and splashed her playfully with water when he was washing his hands, he always smiled. He always made Mary smile. He always made everyone smile. And Mary knew she would miss that the most.

She could see the extent of his wounds clearly now. She saw the large holes imprinted in his skull. She saw each whip mark. Some left red stripes upon his body, while others dug deep into his flesh. She saw the large gash on his shoulder—the one he endured while carrying the cross he didn't deserve. She saw the tear by his rib cage—the one made by the soldier's lance. And as she grasped his hand, she saw the hole in it—right through his palm. She could see all the way through it—even spotting the rocky ground passed that.

Mary gently laid both of her Son's hands atop his chest. She fingered his hair, slightly smiling, and turned towards the jars of spices and oils beside her—the ones Joseph of Arimathea had brought her. Grabbing one bottle at a time, she poured some of the ointment over a cloth and gently wiped Jesus' body. After only a moment the entire cloth was red from the blood, and she had to retrieve a new one.

Mary carefully cleaned each and every wound of Jesus, trying her best to wipe away the pain thrust upon her innocent Son. She cleaned the blood away from his eyes, his mouth, and his beard. She gently poured spices and oils into the holes in his hands and the wounds on his head. She fingered his hair, untangling it and separating it into three parts.

Once Mary knew Jesus was prepared to be laid in his tomb, she hugged him. Not a single tear slid down her face. She simply wrapped her arms around his body and hugged him close to her breast. She wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, and to feel him hugging her back, but she only felt coldness.

Kissing his holy hands for the final time, Mary kept her eyes on her Baby Boy as Nicodemus and Joseph lifted him out of her arms and slowly carried him off. Mary hardly noticed Mary of Magdala running after them, weeping.