St. Alphonsus: After having proclaimed Him guilty of death… the rabble set themselves to ill-treat Him all the night through with blows, and buffets, and kicks, with plucking out His beard, and even spitting in His face, by mocking Him as a false prophet.
Ah, my Jesus, how is it that Thou
art so humble and I so proud?
O Lord, give me light, make me know
Who Thou art, and who I am.
“To be spit upon is to suffer the extreme of insult,” says Origen. Where are we wont to spit except in the most filthy place?
Josefa: Contemplate Me in the prison where I spent the greater part of the night. The soldiers came and, adding words to injuries, insulted Me, mocked Me, outraged Me, and gave Me blows on My face and on My whole Body. Tired of their sport, at length they left Me bound and alone in the dark and noisome place, where, seated on a stone, My aching Body was cramped with cold…
In the prison I endured cold, sleeplessness, hunger and thirst, pain, shame, solitude, and desertion. And there passed before My mind’s eye all the tabernacles where in the course of the ages I should lack the shelter of love… And how often should I wait for this or that other soul to visit Me in the Blessed Sacrament and receive Me into his heart…
And in the prison when they pushed Me and let Me fall to the ground bound and helpless, so many were present to My mind who would prefer a moment’s satisfaction to Me.
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Compiled and © 1993 by Terry A. Modica
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