In the trial of Jesus, as in any courtroom, there are scenes of high drama. From the violence of his arrest, the high priest tearing his clothes, to the purple robe, the crown of thorns and the roar of the crowd "Crucify, Crucify", there is noise and confusion, anger and rage. But at the moment sentence is passed, as in any courtroom, there is calm. The judge speaks with gentleness, the condemned man is treated with tenderness. There is no need to shout his sentence. His own words and deeds and his own silence have condemned him in the sight of those who judge him. And he knows what is coming – the cross is already there waiting for him. But our words, our deeds, our silence, have condemned us in the sight of God. At this quiet moment there is a numbing of the senses. We do not know what it means. We have not noticed what happens next – that we are going to die.

Lord, at any trial we would stand quietly and unmistakeably condemned by our own silence in the face of evil, and by our own selfish and deceitful words. How dare we suppose that Jesus took that condemnation upon himself, for us? And yet by amazing grace, he did, and for this we thank you with all our heart.

Jesus carries his cross. He embraces it. It is his destiny. It is his Father’s will. And the cross is heavier than we can imagine. It is the weight of the world. Yet he is not being cheered for his achievement, as a weightlifter or a round-the-world sailor. For this is no achievement. This is humiliation. And with his arms round the cross, Jesus is utterly alone.

He called us to take up our cross, and as we do so we have to accept that we too make this decision on our own. On my own, and yet he calls me to deny even myself. Can I do this? This is not a challenge to achieve, this is a burden to bear. Dare we take it up, as he did?

Lord, as you stood alone with that colossal weight on top of you, we acknowledge that each of us stands alone before you to take up our own cross and to face our destiny. We do not expect to be cheered but we do ask for your strength to bear this burden, so that we may never fall.

Uniquely in our Stations of the Cross, there is no Bible verse to record Jesus falling under the weight of the cross. And yet it seems likely that he did. He was no physical Superman. He had already said "no" to that temptation. He carried his own cross and yet we know that he did not do so all the way to Calvary. What are we saying? How dare we accuse him of failure? And yet Jesus did fail because he was human. The great miracle and mystery of our faith. Incarnation. God among us in human frailty.

At the beginning of our history, we fell too; not because we had the cares of the world upon us; no, we failed simply because we could. We chose our own way instead of God’s, and we stumbled and fell. If he stumbled, Jesus showed us that he understands where we are coming from.

Lord, in the tradition of your falling under the cross we see how completely human you are, and from this we take comfort. We cannot rejoice that you fell, but we do rejoice that, for us as for you, the fall is not the end of the story. Thank you, Lord.

On this road of tears, Jesus is now no longer alone. Simon is helping him to carry his cross. It is not a token gesture; it is God’s will that his Son needs help. Jesus has chosen to be the head of a body whose arms and legs, eyes and ears are his people. There is perhaps a case for Simon to be acknowledged as the first Christian, the first member of the body of Christ, the first to be needed in the work of the Kingdom. It is hard and painful work – but what a privilege, and one which we share!

Lord, we thank you for Simon of Cyrene, the one who helped you. We speak so much of our faith in you, but now we thank you for your faith in us, for the grace by which you accept the little that we have to offer. May our offering truly help to move your kingdom forward and bring glory to you.

A strong wooden structure, a man holding a hammer and nails; these are images of the carpenter’s craft. Jesus is in agony but his torment is surely doubled by these reminders in sight and sound of his childhood in Nazareth. How close to home these evil men are! They are planning, co-operating, exercising their skill with pride. Working together, as the makers and operators of gas chambers worked together. Decent, upright people, not ogres or aliens. Making friends in their work, as Herod of the Jews and Pilate of the Romans made friends when before they had been enemies. Men who needed comradeship. Not twisted or deranged people, just ordinary chaps like me. Never let it be said that this behaviour was an aberration. Jesus was always going to be crucified by good citizens. Jesus was numbered with the criminals, and decent people put him away with them. Of all the people surrounding Jesus that day, one especially stands out. You can’t miss him. Who is he? Someone with the stigma of the nails already through his hands. Someone who had even taunted Jesus. Who was he? A beggar? An asylum seeker? A traveller? A religious fanatic? A paedophile? A pro-life campaigner? An anti-war activist? Whoever he was, he was the only one surrounding Jesus who was sure of Paradise that day.

Lord, we cannot hide. Nor can we sweep evil away to the margins of our property and our society. It is people like us who are handy with a hammer and nails. Help us to remember this when we are looking around for someone to hate. And as we confess our part in your crucifixion, please remember us when you come into your kingdom.

Famous last words and a famous scene. We may have our own image of Jesus on the cross. There are thousands to choose from, after all. But one picture is not enough to encompass what is happening here. The criminals dying with him. The utter desolation of a man who was the Son of God and yet who had not been saved from death. But also the triumph of John’s Gospel, of the Son of Man lifted high, proclaiming "It is accomplished". And the wonder of the centurion, proclaiming "Surely this man was the Son of God!". The curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. There were earthquakes, and darkness, and many amazing things happened. But one terrible and unshakeable fact remains in the middle of all this: Jesus died.

Dear Lord, it is tempting to think that somehow you only pretended to forsake Jesus at his hour of death. What kind of a religion is that that kills the Son of God? At its most charitable, the world sees this as some kind of joke. Yet there was a death, there had to be a death for death itself to be swallowed up in victory. Lord, help us to proclaim this mystery to those around us on this Good Friday and at this Easter time.

What a contrast between Jesus high and alone on the cross, exalted but scorned, taunted by some who knew of him yet recognized as the Son of God by a stranger, and Jesus brought down, a corpse, but now surrounded by those who had loved and respected him. And by the customs of the time, what an unlikely band of followers! His male disciples had fled in panic. Who was it, then, who tenderly took Jesus’ body and laid it in the tomb? Joseph of the Sanhedrin and Nicodemus the Pharisee. Groups that Jesus himself had scorned. And who prepared spices and perfumes for him? Mary and Mary, Joanna and others. They had to wait, and so will we. For now, we have only the picture of a man who died a criminal’s death and who was buried as a criminal. But for whose crime?

Lord, we know that this is not the end of the story. If it were, we would not be here today. We stand before you utterly ashamed that your Son had to reach these depths, his lifeless body taken away to be buried. The laughter and the joy of his company, gone. The healing touch and the voice of such wisdom, gone. The anger and thirst for justice, gone. We drove him there and we are ashamed, Lord. And yet we dare to hope against hope that you will do something. In that hope and as we wait, we pray to you, in the name of Jesus.