It’s Thursday.
Not Easter Sunday.
Not the silence of Saturday.
It’s the night before.
The night of the breaking bread, the basin and towel,
the whisper of betrayal in a friend’s breath.
And my heart sits heavy.
Because Jesus knew.
He knew what tomorrow held—
the thorns, the spit, the lash of injustice.
He knew pain was coming.
Still… He stayed.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t rage.
He washed feet.
Even the ones that would soon walk away.
The moments I’ve clenched my fists instead of opening my hands.
The seasons I’ve been more Judas than John.
But He – Jesus, my Jesus – chose surrender.
He chose the Garden.
He chose the cup.
He chose me.
Thursday is where the weight is felt
before the whip is swung.
Where the soul is pressed in Gethsemane
and still says,
“Not my will, but Yours be done.”
And so tonight, I sit with Him.
I don’t rush to Sunday.
I sit in the sorrow,
and I whisper back the words He once bled:
I’m still here, Lord. Even in the dark. Even in the wait. You’re still worthy, You are my King, My Saviour, The One who Was, WHo is and who will alwyas Be.
