I come before the cross in my imagination. I bring my bags, my files of accusations, my memories of wrongs and I leave them their, at the foot of the cross. For though this wooden cross beam is empty, there is power still here. For this is the place of sacrifice, of death, but also life. For it is only in dieing that you truly live.

As I leave my bags the whispers come. You haven’t fully let go. You still remember what happened, you need justice, what they did was wrong. The scenario builds in my head as the voice become stronger, but I reason that, one who was completely innocent died for me, unjustly without a fair trial. Who am I to require such things? If I can just fix my eyes on him, if I can remember the truth, that he is the resurrection and the life and that believing in him is life, even though I die, somehow the voices fade into a mere breeze that floats away.

Lighter is my load when I let go. Lighter is my path when he is the guide.