My hands. They were my hands. Elbows bent at a ninety degree angle, hands turned palms up and fingers spread. Staring, staring, I could not return them to my body, it would be admitting they were mine. These hands, these blood soaked hands, I wanted no part of them.
How? I did not mean to, but I did. I felt dizzy. My head swirled.
I fell upon my knees, staring at my bloody hands.
I AM A MURDERER!
“Murderer, murderer,” repeated in my mind.
There was no lack of proof. There was a body, there were witnesses, there was a motive, and blood upon my hands.
Remembering the act, I yelled out in agony, I did it. Murderer. I murdered a man.
His eyes. I can not get his eyes out of my head. There was something about them I could not stand. They tortured me. I murdered him.
The last thing I remember is taking a spear and pushing it into his side. A mixture of blood and water poured out, flowing down the spear to my hands. Blood and water, that was even worse than pure blood. I had broken his heart.
Then it all rushed back, I remembered the act, I remembered the gruesome details. I whipped him, his back tearing and ripping, splattering blood upon my face. But he still looked at me, he looked at me with his eyes. I wanted him to curse me, but he just seemed to stare right through me, which enraged me all the more. I took the hammer and I took the spikes.
I placed the nail upon his wrist, and then I did it. I hammered through his skin. He never looked away. He gazed at me with his eyes. And I continued, with rage, I hammered a spike through his ankles.
I nailed him. I nailed him to a cross. He hung there, his eyes fixed on me. His eyes.
He called out to God. But did God answer him?
I mocked him as he hung in agony and torture and torment. I had never seen a man suffer so much. There was something more than the nails that held him there and there was something more painful than his gasps for breath. His eyes, I wanted him to hate, to yell, to give into the pain.
And when darkness rolled in, his eyes fixed one last time on me. What was it about his eyes? Why did they torture me so.
With his dying breath, his eyes pierced my heart. It was LOVE. As I whipped him, as I nailed him, as I mocked him, he loved me.
I grabbed the spear in one last hateful attempt, even after I knew he was dead, I stabbed him.
Then the blood and the water flowed. Then I saw his broken heart and then I stared at my hands and fell upon my knees.
“JESUS!” I called out, with something louder than words, I called with my heart.
“I am a murderer. Sorry! I am so sorry!”
I murdered the one I love. I murdered the only one that had ever loved me.
Hell. I would go to hell. I took my bloody hands, I accepted my deserved fate and I covered my shamed face with my bloody hands.
Two warm hands touched my bloody hands.
In a demonic voice, I yelled out, “Do not touch me! I am a murderer!”
I looked up and I saw, I saw those eyes. He is alive! I saw the scars on his hands! I saw the scar on his side! I saw his forgiving eyes!
His touch on my hands removed the blood, he cleansed me, he made me clean.
The man I murdered has forgiven me.