An air of melancholy smothers a-once sublime and all-powerful throne-room as hope fades into distant memory. The sovereign monarch reduced to a mere bystander; authority no longer indisputable, omnipotence less certain, and heart broken like that of a grieving mother.
And yet he does nothing; motionless, as though the wretched episode below has crippled all semblance of initiative and power.
More and more gather to watch; angels, cherubim, seraphim, the twenty-four elders, saints, shackled by a fear never experienced before; wondering how such an ordeal could be possible.
Is there a way out of this?
Does he have a plan — a counter-measure of sorts?
Why are the archangels still here?
Never before have they doubted their all-conquering master — the one who knows the beginning from the end.
How did it come to this?
Is the triumvirate no more?
Anxiety’s svelte touch intensifies as Jesus is nailed to a wooden cross — left hand, right hand, feet; pain, tears, desolation, and despair.
The debilitating anguish of a grieving parent is one that can neither be understood or imagined.
Didn’t we make them in our image? How could they do this to an innocent man? I know this is part of our plan for their redemption, but I can’t help but marvel in disgust at their joy of causing so much pain to another.
Was it too much to hope my love would prevail? The malevolence that fills their hearts is beyond comprehension.
How? Why are they such easy prey for evil and wickedness? Do they not know how dreadful a thing it is to fall into my hands??
My son…my beloved son.
Such torment is too much to bear. I never imagined this affliction would be so great. How I wish I could take your place. Far better for me to carry the heinous weight of sin than you.
Why did I permit you to carry such a heavy burden? Never have I felt so helpless, despondent, and angry. I fear the rage within may soon consume me.
He closes his eyes and pictures the moment he and his son formed the plan for mankind’s redemption. Their motive was simple — love. An affectionate and unfailing devotion for a being which, though ridden with faults, possesses the potential to love in their image — selfless, merciful, forgiving, and unconditional.
Anger subsides a little as that distant memory grows stronger.
To his left are the seven archangels; supreme servants of the most-high. Ever loyal, and forever ready to do battle at the behest of their master.
But is that doubt in Gabriel’s eyes? Could his master have erred? Is this a gamble too far? Does anxiety’s shadow hover above Uriel? Betraying a faint but present fear the reign of the Ancient of Days may be drawing-to-an-end?
Raphael’s clenched fists, though by his sides, reveal an inner turmoil of bewilderment and horror.
They look to Michael for strength, so as not to disappoint their master. Michael, I Am’s ever-reliable pillar of fortitude and loyalty. A shining beacon of light for all angels. If in doubt, look to Michael.
His eyes are open once more. If nothing else, the least he can do is witness the brutal murder of his son with his own eyes. A simple order and every one of those treacherous men’s lives will be ended in an instant. But no, he must be still, and watch as the King of kings is humiliated and slaughtered like rabid dog.
It is the insolence of it all that infuriates him. Who do they think they are?? What makes them think they can do such evil and get away with it?
They laugh, ridicule, and scorn, as they insult his only child over-and-over again.
The throne-room begins to rumble, as though heaven’s very foundation is now in question. Before long the violent upheaval is so fierce the twenty-four elders stop mid-song. A harrowing silence descends as every being realises its’ source — the creator himself. They say his love knows no bounds; neither does his anger.
The archangels gather before him and go on bended-knee; heads bowed, and hands on swords as they anticipate their orders. Surely now is the time; the moment they are instructed to rescue their King and restore order.
Heaven’s entirety holds its breath in anticipation of the almighty’s command.
Never has he been so angry. He once destroyed the world he created in order to start afresh. This evil far surpasses that of before.
A few yards from the cross stands a Roman soldier, stricken with guilt and remorse. As though scales have fallen from his eyes, he begins to realise that not only has an innocent man being murdered, but they may well have crucified the son of the one true God.
He studies the soldier — shame, regret, and wrought with sorrow. He will never be the same. This man will devote the rest of his life to serving the very person he and his companions have just put to death. He will not only be renewed but also reconciled to me.
Love and mercy fill his heart.
Heaven waits. And waits. And waits, as the violent quake subsides.
The rumbling ceases as the Ancient of Days is once more at peace within.
My son…my beloved son….I’m so proud of you….so very proud of you.
Read more at — http://www.hisunfailinglove.org/2019/04/17/a-fathers-grief/