By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Jesus is Laid in the Tomb

Hey guys! So here is the LAST CHAPTER. I know, *cries*. Thank you sooooo much for reading into this far of my story. I hope you guys liked it as much as I did :) For this one, towards the middle part, I have John run out of the Tomb first, which, if you remember, when Jesus rises again, John is the FIRST one to run INTO the tomb. Just a little side-note. How do you guys like the final paragraph? When it's nobody's POV?

THANKS FOR READING!!!! LOVE YOU GUYS!!!

Jesus is Laid in the Tomb

John followed closely behind Joseph and Nicodemus. He watched as his Lord was carefully brought into the prepared tomb, then laid on the giant rock table. John noticed Nicodemus staring into the face of Jesus, then he gently placed the cloth over his face.

There he was. The King of kings and Lord of lords, lying on a table in a tomb—dead. John's best friend... What would he do now? How would he care for his new Mother? How would he provide for her? Where were the rest of the Apostles? Peter? His brother, James?

Jesus, help me.

But as John stared down at that body, he had a great deal of doubt as to whether Jesus could help him. He had endured every single blow and every single pain with silence, and even allowed himself to hang on a cross like a criminal. How would he help John? Why would he help John?

Jesus was dead. And he wasn't coming back. John was utterly alone to care for himself and the Blessed Mother.

Turning away, John hurried out of the grotto.

Storm clouds rolled in and sprinkles of rain started to fall. Mary of Magdala grasped flowers and palm branches in her hand as she stood just outside of the tomb. John was the first one out. Mary watched, confused, as he hurried away from that area, not glancing at her or the tomb. Taking it as a cue to go in, Mary of Magdala ran inside and knelt before the body of her Lord. She placed the flowers and palm branches near him, and whispered words of prayer as the tears once again began falling from her eyes.

She thought of when she was possessed by demons, when Jesus had cured her, and those years she had followed him—listening, praying, and worshipping him. She thought of the love he shared for her and for the world. She thought of the happy times...when Jesus would laugh and smile and play with the children. He was so happy then...

Almost unavoidably, flashes of Jesus' blood came rushing through Mary's mind. She saw the whips with glass shards ripping into his flesh, tearing him apart blow by blow. She saw the cross digging deep into his shoulder. She saw the blood drip from his temple into his swollen eyes. She saw the fountain of redness gush forth from his hands as each nail trapped him against his deathbed. She saw him hanging there on the cross—a condemned criminal. Then she saw him die. Right before her eyes, she saw her perfect Lord—the one who had cured her and given her a life worth living—die by crucifixion.

Overcome with grief, Mary cried out and reached for her Lord, which was entirely wrapped in cloth. Nicodemus came running to her, pulling her away, but she fought, begging her Lord to become alive again. She scratched and screamed at the man who held her back and dragged her out of the tomb, but he was much stronger than her. Once Mary was outside and by the Blessed Mother, she collapsed on the ground in a fit of tears. She grabbed her hair, covered her ears, and sat rocking, overcome with sadness like never before.

Mary the Mother, face pale, knelt beside her, looked in her eyes, and hugged her. Strengthened yet still sad, Mary of Magdala stood and looked towards the tomb as the stone was slowly rolled over the entrance. She could see the body lie there on the table. She could see the burial cloth covering Jesus' head.

Then, she could see him no more.

Though there were many people there along with Mary, including Mary of Heli, Mary of Cleophas, Johanna Chusa, Mary the mother of Mark, Salome, Anne, Dina, Mara, Martha, and even Lazarus, a great silence stretched over the land like nothing Mary ever knew. No one said anything. No one wept, nor yelled in anger, nor prayed aloud.

Just silence.

Rain began falling down, and Mary could feel the droplets sprinkling on her hair. She glanced up and saw each raindrop fall from the sky, like tears from the angels. A hazy mist rolled in from a distance and slightly covered the tomb where her Lord lay dead—unmoving, unbreathing.

After only a moment of realization, almost all the women started to weep. Some walked away, wiping their faces in deep sadness. John left with Mary the Mother, but Mary of Magdala remained standing for only a moment longer in the cold and rain. She stared at that tomb which held her Lord. She stared and she cried, the tears mixing with the rain.

Then, Mary slowly turned away from her Savior.

As sadness stretched across the land of Jerusalem, somewhere farther off, there was no sadness. Though many women and men alike were weeping at the death of Jesus, elsewhere, Jesus was not dead. Elsewhere, Jesus—healed fully except for the holes in his hands and feet and the tear in his side—stood before the hundreds of thousands of souls recently released from Limbo. His clothes were dazzling white, and he was smiling. All of his pain was gone. Every injury and drop of blood was healed, for Jesus' mission had been completed; and now, he stood before the Golden Gates of Heaven, him and his Father on one side, the many souls on the other. Slowly, inch by inch, Jesus opened Heaven's doors, the Love and Light of God streaming forth in indescribable radiance. The souls rejoiced, as did Jesus, for now millions were finally welcomed into paradise.