Nobody slept much the night before.
Jesus had been arrested. He wasn’t coming back. He was taken to the High Priest’s home, charged with crimes he did not commit. He was tortured by the Romans while his own people watched. He spent Thursday night as a prisoner, and Friday was shaping up to be anything but good.
The disciples were scattered. Peter was trying to process his shame, feeling broken after denying his friend three times the night before. Judas? Well, he was already gone, the weight of his betrayal too heavy to carry. The rest were huddled behind locked doors, haunted by the sound of soldiers and swords clashing in the garden just hours earlier. Hiding, grieving, afraid.
By sunrise, it was already clear: this day would be different. Not just for them, but for everyone. For all of history.
Jesus was dragged from one courtroom to another—if you could even call them courtrooms. It was more like theater. The religious elite had already made up their minds, and the political leaders just wanted to avoid a riot.
The Roman leader, Pilate, couldn’t find a reason to crucify him. Neither could Herod. They both knew there was no truth to the accusations made against Jesus, but truth almost never wins when fear is louder.
As for the crowd, the same people who shouted “Hosanna!” five days ago now chanted “Crucify him!” A total reversal. It didn’t make sense. Mob mentality rarely does.
So, Pilate did what cowards do: he washed his hands, gave Jesus over to be executed, and tried to forget.
They whipped him. Stripped him. Mocked him.
A crown of thorns was forced onto his head. Blood streamed down his face, mixing with sweat and spit. They draped a purple robe across his shoulders, not to honor him, but to humiliate him.
Then they assigned him a “patibulum,” the crossbeam of a Roman cross. They placed it on his shoulders and ordered him to carry it through the streets of Jerusalem. The Via Dolorosa – the Way of the Rose. The way of suffering. Beginning at the palace, and ending at a street corner outside of town. At the foot of a hill called “the Place of the Skull.”
Jesus stumbled forward, each step soaked in pain and prophecy. The same hands that healed the blind, blessed children, and fed thousands now struggled to hold a heavy beam of splintered wood. The feet that walked confidently on choppy seawater now barely kept their balance. The eyes that burned with passion in the Temple courts just a few days before now burned from the blood, sweat, and tears that streamed down his face.
People watched. Some laughed. Some cried. Most just stood there, stunned and silent, trying to process the sight of hope unraveling before them.
At Golgotha, they laid Him down and drove nails through His wrists and feet, pinning him to the cross. They lifted Him up between two thieves, the sinless one hung between the guilty.
And the sky began to darken.
From noon to 3 p.m., the sun disappeared. It just vanished, completely hidden from sight. The light of the world, covered in darkness as if creation itself couldn’t bear to watch.
Jesus cried out—not in anger or bitterness, but in agony:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
It’s one of the most mysterious, heartbreaking, human moments in the entire Bible. The Son, separated from the Father. The Holy absorbing the unholy. Jesus, shouldering the guilt of every person who’s ever lived.
It wasn’t just the nails that held Him there. It was purpose. He was determined to rob the grave of its power, to rob death of its sting, to rob sin of its potency, and to rob the enemy of any hope of final victory. He could have spoken a word and called the whole thing off. But he loved us too much. There was redemptive work to be done on that cross.
And when the work was done, when the last breath had been fought for and found, Jesus spoke three words that altered the very DNA of the universe:
“It is finished.”
At that moment, the ground shook—an earthquake. Tombs opened. The temple curtain—60 feet tall, four inches thick, designed to separate man from the presence of God in the holiest room of the Temple—tore from top to bottom.
But those were just the physical signs. Spiritually? The veil between God and humanity—ripped apart. The divide between sin and forgiveness—bridged forever. The debt of sin—paid in full.
He died for our sin so we wouldn’t have to. He was forsaken so we’d never have to be. He was crushed so we could be free.
Maybe you’ve wondered why we call this particular Friday “good”.
It doesn’t look good on the surface. There’s nothing warm or pretty about it. It’s more evil than anything else, at least at first glance. It seems dark. It seems…final. But if this were the end of the story, we wouldn’t be telling it.
You see, the cross wasn’t the end. It was the payment. The proof. The promise.
Good Friday is good not because of the pain, but because of the purpose behind it. It’s good because Jesus didn’t stay dead. It’s good because grace finally had a face—and it looked like a bloodied Savior who refused to give up on us.
Maybe you’ve had your own Friday moments. Moments where hope died, where the silence of heaven felt unbearable, where you wondered if the light would ever return.
Good Friday reminds us that the silence isn’t the end. The darkness doesn’t win. And death never gets the last word.
The cross was the worst, and best, thing that ever happened. And if God can use the horror of Friday to bring the hope of Sunday, then He can use your pain too.
You don’t need to clean yourself up before you come to Jesus. That’s the whole point of the cross—you can’t.
You don’t earn mercy. You don’t earn freedom. You surrender.
You bring your guilt. Your shame. Your secrets. Your sin.
You lay it all down at the foot of the cross.
And you walk away free.
Because Friday is not the end.
It’s only the beginning.
And Sunday’s coming.
Leave a Reply