I saw so much that day. What a horrific sight to see; what a terrible cry to hear. In all the shouting, “Crucify Him,” I watched as He walked down the road, carrying that huge cross. It must have been so heavy. When He collapsed to the ground, I heard the most horrific cry. I saw a woman run up to Him only to be stopped by the men who she was originally standing with. It was His mother Mary and His disciples. Her scream – I never heard anything like it; it was deafening. I felt tears run down my face as I held my children a little tighter. What a tragedy to watch your child endure this torture. In the moment, I felt so bad for her, but then I remembered. Recalling His words, I smiled. I knew this wasn’t the end. I had heard the whispers of His disciples, quoting Him, “The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men, and they will kill him. And when he is killed, after three days he will rise” (Mark 9:31).
I believed He was and is the Son of God. If He could cast out demons and command nature to His will, then He had ultimate power over heaven and earth. Because of this, I knew He could conquer death, and that’s exactly what happened.
When the stone was rolled away and the tomb empty, there was a rumor that His disciples stole His body in the middle of the night. But I know the truth. There was an angel; I saw him. He said, “He is not here; he has risen, just as he said” (Matthew 28:6).
He was the One, who was prophesied by the prophets. He was the One who was born King. He is Christ the Lord.
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