THE MORNING WATCH
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Nearly always when he thought of this Richard was shocked almost into
awe of such blasphemy; and some few times when some priest or his
mother was insisting what we all owe Jesus he had been tempted to
wonder, wasn't it maybe really so, for it was a fact; Jesus had done it
without anybody asking Him to: but now it seemed neither blasphemous
nor persuasive but only empty and idle and cruel and as he thought of
it he could see the man of whom it had been said, sitting very quietly on a
stool or maybe a bench among the iron-breasted helmeted soldiers
while they hit him and spat in his face and mocked him. Nobody
could come near him or help him or even speak a word of love or
thanks or comfort to him now. He could see him only as if he spied down
on what was happening through a cellar window and it would be
torture and death to dare to even try to get in, and no use could come
of it, even if he did. The way, maybe, Peter had stayed. All of Peter's
betraying and cowardliness was over and done with now. Nothing could
ever wipe out for him what he had done. He wasn't even crying any
more because he couldn't even cry any more. He was just hiding around
on the outskirts, spying through the window. He was afraid to show
himself and he couldn't stand to go away. He must wish he was dead.
Judas, by now, had he hanged himself? Richard couldn't remember
for sure when. But if he hadn't yet, that was all there was left for him
to do. That was all he was thinking about all the rest of this night,
all that was left of his life. I want to die. 0 I want to be dead. I
can't be dead soon enough to suit me. Judas didn't feel contrition,
Father Weiler said, he felt remorse. Probably he couldn't cry like Peter.
Just terrible cold remorse, as cold and bitter as the sound of the word.
Remorse is very different from contrition; a deadly sin. A mortal sin is
a sin that cuts us off from God. With remorse you don't feel sorry like
contrition, you feel, well you just feel remorse, that's all.
These were just the dead hours. The hours between. They must be
the worst hours of all for Jesus and for everyone who loved Him. No
more doubt now. No more praying to God the Father, if this Cup can be
taken from me: that's over long ago. It can't. That's all. No more
judgment, standing trial, answering fool questions. He's already been sen–
tenced to die. He belongs to the Law. Now just the time between. So
tired. No sleep all this night. Waiting, getting Himself ready inside,
while they mock and sneer and holler at him, and spit in his face, and
crown him with thorns, and put the reed in his hand for a scepter, just
waiting through the rest of the long night, just getting ready to die,
while the night slowly turns into morning, and it's the last morning of
all. To suffer so he will cry out,
My God, my God, why hast Thou
forsaken me?
And then die.
It is finished.
And then die. And meekly
