I’ve always been in the shadows, unable to be part of everyday life. People avoid me. My relatives escape my presence. I’ve lived in shame and ridicule. I heard of him and sought to find him. It’s with those words; “It is finish”, that have caused me to remember again.
It drips along his ripped flesh. I can see it flow into his torn side. With every gasping breathe the blood streams to the ground.
It was not long ago when I, the outcast, in desperation, moved among the crowds that followed him. Here I am again in the crowd.
No one would touch me. No one could come near.
It was finished! Healing, it was mine. The blood it just -- stopped. Twelve years of agony. Doctors could not help me. And now it just stopped. I have a sense of wholeness but I was afraid.
He knew; he knew it was me. I have defiled the Master. He called out for me. He was aware, Jesus knew. He turned around in the crowd and asked “Who touched me?” The disciples couldn't answer him, there were so many followers. His eyes are searching to and fro. It’s me Lord; I could not hide any longer. I fell at his feet as I trembled, told him the truth, I worshipped at his feet. He called me daughter. He said my faith had made me whole. He told me to go in peace and suffer no more. He saw my affliction and the anguish of my soul.
Jesus is hanging on a cross.
It seems like every ounce of blood has fallen to the ground. His is not like mine.I was contaminated, yet when I touched him he did not retreat. Somehow I did not make him unclean. He said virtue had flowed from him.
It’s heart wrenching to watch. But I can’t stop my eyes from looking at his face.Perhaps it’s strange, but the flow seems precious.