Good Friday and the Oklahoma City Bombing

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The wood pulled on the flesh on his back. Sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes. The gathered crowds derided him. Overcome with shame and humiliation, he walked on.

He neared the destination. The via dolorosa led him south on Harvey Avenue on that April day in 1995. The volume of the mob rose as they saw him approaching. They taunted him, cursed him, spat on him. Stripped naked, he had nowhere to hide. He crawled on toward the place.

They led him to the entrance of the building. They shoved him through door. He looked around and saw them all there — the young and the old, those whose would remain in this spot eternally. One hundred sixty-eight of them, in total. Nineteen children. Nineteen children. Here, he knew, they would give their last breath. Their life would be vanquished. He sobbed uncontrollably.

The clock approached 9:00 a.m. Only minutes to go. He cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken us?” He looked each victim in the eyes, one last time. He gathered the children and embraced them.

The clock struck 9:02. Darkness filled the sky. The world lamented. The precious had been shattered by the vile. In the rubble, with the one hundred sixty-eight, God lay, dead.