As Lutherans, we have a long and noble tradition of meditating on the crucifixion of Christ. For example, Luther invited people to use the crucifix as a way to help them meditate on Christ’s crucifixion. Part of that tradition is our services on Good Friday.
In the 12th century, a monk, Bernard of Clairvaux, wrote a series of poems just for such meditation. Paul Gerhardt, a writer of many Lutheran hymns, adapted some of Bernard’s meditations for the famous Lenten hymn, “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.” We will sing stanzas of that hymn during our Good Friday meditation.
When we meditate on Christ’s crucifixion, we don’t do so to feel pity for Jesus. Instead, we meditate to nurture the life of faith. It’s spiritual training, so we will properly fear and love God as Luther teaches us in The Small Catechism. It’s turning away in faith from our sins back to God. And so this night, we renew our clasp on Jesus, so He through the Holy Spirit may cleanse, strengthen, and keep us in the one, true faith.
But what is meditation? It’s to think with the heart and love with the mind. Through meditation, we discipline ourselves to listen to God tell us how He overcame His wrath in His mercy through His Son’s suffering and death.
Think about when you were younger. Did you, perhaps, gaze on someone you loved with wonder and delight, with fullness and contentment? Simply being around that person satisfied you. Yet, being around him or her also increased the longing.
That’s how it is to be when you meditate on the crucifix. For the cross on which our Lord hung is a hinge, the hinge on which swings death and life. He is the open door into the presence of God’s grace and glory. He is the Gate of righteousness through which the righteous enter.
We begin our meditation by looking at the thorn-crowned head of Jesus. We now sing stanza 1 of “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” (LSB 450:1).
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We think with the head. How then did Jesus think about us? In His flesh-and-blood brain, we have more than just a man thinking about us. We have God in the Flesh thinking of us.
Yet, as we ponder, how did Jesus think of His status as God’s only and eternal Son? He didn’t consider His being equal with God as something to exploit. Instead, He emptied Himself by taking on the form of a slave (Philippians 2:6-7). Serving His Father’s will, He thought to save our lives instead of His own. He thought of our interests, not His. He wanted to please and serve His Father, fulfilling the Father’s will for us.
The glory of Jesus’ mind is His will and determination to do the Father’s will. Now, a thorny wreath crowns His head. In that crown of thorns, we see a picture of our cutting and prickly thoughts against God, others, and sometimes even against ourselves. Our heads are full of our thoughts, thinking that we know what is in our best eternal interests. And so we too often march to our own drum. Yet, Jesus took those twisted, sinful, and evil thoughts into His mind and suffered for us.
Through faith, His sacred head becomes ours. Even more, His thoughts are even to shape how we think. We are to have the mind of Christ within us (2 Corinthians 2:16).
We now move to the face and eyes of our crucified Lord. We sing stanza 2 of “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” (LSB 450:2).
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A harsh glance from His eyes and the frown of disapproval from His face are terror beyond bearing. Yet, that is not what we see. Instead, we now see the signs of color being stripped from His face. It bears the discolored look of our shame.
Yet, in that face, we also see the glory of God. We see the God who turns His face toward us to bless us and keep us. He even makes His face shine on us, giving to us the peace of God Himself.
It’s against that face that we fallen beings rage. Don’t think those soldiers, religious leaders, or crowd were worse sinners than you and me. Their spitting and jeering, their mocking and poking fun at him, and their scorn reveal the hatred that we have for God lurking in us all.
But Jesus, Love Himself, did not turn His face away in revulsion. He set His face to go to Jerusalem, for the Father’s love for us was propelling Him forward.
Now, God takes our fallen and sinful hatred toward Him and joins it to the fury of His wrath against sin and sinners. That’s what the color of Jesus’ cheeks shows us. Jesus has taken into Himself our fallen hatred toward God and suffers in our place.
Death is merciless and drains life from all–and from Him for us all. His lips have turned blue, just as we have seen in death the lips of another become a cold and pale blue. But what pours from those lips are not curses and spiteful rage. Instead, in His faithfulness, Jesus speaks words of grace, truth, and love.
That face is the face of our sacrificial Lamb, Jesus Christ. His eyes and face now turn toward you. They are God’s statement that it is safe to be in His presence. For covered in the righteousness of Christ, you receive life instead of death. When you meditate, turn often to that face. See the glory of God’s salvation there for you.
We now meditate on the exchange that Jesus made for us. He takes our sin; we receive His righteousness. We now sing stanzas 3 and 4 of “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” (LSB 450:3-4).
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Our meditation hymn tells us that God has made an exchange for us with Christ: “What Thou, my Lord, has suffered was all for sinners’ gain.” Meditating on Jesus bearing your burden–bearing you, for you are His burden–is not to evoke compassion for Him. No, you honor Him most when you see the enormity of that burden–and you let Him bear it for you. That’s how you honor His incarnation and death.
So may your confession be: “Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain. Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ‘Tis I deserve Thy place; look on me with favor, and grant to me Thy grace.”
When you cling to Jesus the Shepherd, it is for your own eternal well-being. He is your guardian. Consider His lips and mouth. From His mouth comes, not spite and hatred, but words of nurture and joy. And so the compassion we need, and from which we live, is not our own. Oh no, the compassion that enlivens us is God’s compassion, the mercy that He has for us in Christ Jesus.
We now meditate on our Savior’s heart and His body broken. On this night, we think on the spear thrust into Jesus’ side that pierced His skin, causing an outpouring of water and blood.
We now sing stanza 5 of “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” (LSB 450:5).
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Consider our Savior’s loving heart. He allowed Himself to be stretched out on the cross-beam of death. There, He embraced the whole world–even you–with His outstretched arms. And from His spear-pierced side flowed water and blood, a cleansing stream of salvation from the Lord.
When you stand beside Him in faith, you are drenched in the cleansing flood. The water from His side makes the water of baptism into a life-giving water of forgiveness. The blood from His side makes the wine in His Supper into a life-giving blood that strengthens you. That gushing fountain, revealed by that spear, is for cleansing and forgiveness. For from Christ’s side pours out the grace and power to keep you.
The journey back to God is always a walk into the valley of death. Yet, it’s is not only Christ’s death on which we meditate. For the shadow of that valley comes to us long before death haunts our doorway. We now sing Stanza 6 of “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” (LSB 450:6).
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In this fallen world, both our body and soul languish. Weariness not only besets us, but even the shadow of the valley of death is never far from us. Death stalks us even before we die. For sin and death are also symptoms of our fall into sin.
And so when our dreams die their death and when our hopes become starved, death is greeting us early. Death greets us early when our sinful nature brings us to neglect our spiritual needs. When the discipline of a long sacrifice leaves us hollow, an early death is stalking us. It is then that our Savior’s anguish on the cross is to conquer our anguish, for He succeeds when we fail.
Stanza 7 of “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” is an enduring meditation for when death finally greets us. We now sing stanza 7 (LSB 450:7).
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When Bernard when was dying, the monks at the monastery huddled around his bed, praising him for the good works he had done. He told them to be silent and, instead, to hold a crucifix before his eyes.
In death, O Lord, remind me of your passion. For You are my true comfort! Turn my eyes that they may see You and Your cross. By faith, my heart will then enfold You. As our fathers in the faith, Gerhardt and Bernard, taught us: “Who dieth thus dies well.” Amen.
