It lingers in me, the way some dreams refuse to die when morning comes. Not the nails, not the splintered wood—that pain was almost honest. What I cannot escape are the faces. The small cruelties tucked in their mouths, the eyes that gleamed not with wonder but with hunger. They were strangers, yes, but they looked upon me as though I were theirs to break, and in that moment I knew what hate was. It rose inside me like a second heart.
My Father’s voice once kissed me at the Jordan, whispered beloved as the river curled around my ankles. But on that hill the sky had soured, the noon had gone black, and the voice was gone. No dove, no comfort, no hand in mine. Only the sound of dice clattering over the dust for my robe, only teeth tearing bread still warm with my blood. Their laughter was the only psalm left.
And I tell you plain: I did not forgive them. I would not. Their joy at my ruin deserved no pity, no blessing. The silence of heaven was an answer all its own. So when I raised my head, throat cracked with fire, and cried—My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?—it was not prayer but indictment.
The darkness pulled me downward, and I went willingly. Not out of mercy, not out of love, but because my hatred was heavier than the stone they later rolled across the tomb. I hated them, and that hate chained me to them. So I descended, step by burning step, into the pit. They thought hell was theirs alone, but I carried it with me. I brought it closer. I wore it like a crown.
You see, salvation was not born of love’s tenderness. No, it was hammered in rage, beaten into shape by wrath. I did not come as shepherd but as storm, not with balm but with fire. My hate was pure, and in its purity it bound me to them more tightly than any embrace of mercy.
And so here I stand, looking back, remembering their faces in that dying light. The jeers, the smiles, the blindness of them all. I hated them, yes. But in that hatred I carried them with me, deeper than they ever knew. That was the madness. That was the truth.
