Mary Magdalene, For a Woman Like Me

I listen in horror to the Apostles' accounts
Of what happened at Gethsemane,
That night when the soldiers arrested Jesus
And the Apostles were forced to flee.

Now we stand on the fringes of the crowd
And watch this mockery of a trial proceed.
How can they think of condemning this Man
Who holds the answer to their every need?

How can it be possible for His ministry of mercy
To simply be ending like this?
And why is it that I keep imagining
That I hear a nearby serpent's hiss?

Standing with His mother, I watch His torture,
My heart broken and filled with dread.
I long to run to Him and wipe the blood
From His precious thorn encircled head.

I shudder with every lash of the whip,
Every nail that is hammered into place,
As I witness His suffering and agony.
It is reflected in His eyes and upon His face.

I fall to my knees and gaze up at Him
As He hangs upon His cross.
I pray for a quick end to His suffering,
Wondering how I can survive His loss.

Father, I know the life I used to live
Was extremely offensive to Thee.
Why is your perfect Son hanging on that cross,
When it should have been me?

I will never understand what He did for me,
Or why He was willing to sacrifice,
To pay for the many sins of a woman like me.
Yet He was willing to pay the ultimate price.