The Famous Last Words Of Good Friday
Living in the Shadow of the Cross
For forty days, we have walked a quiet path through Lent—a season marked by reflection, confession, and a sobering awareness of our humanity. We’ve acknowledged our brokenness, owned our shortcomings, and faced the uncomfortable truth that we have all fallen short of the glory of God.
And now, we come to the cross.
Good Friday invites us to pause—not to rush past the pain, not to jump ahead to the resurrection—but to sit at the foot of the cross and take in the depth of what was done for us. On this day, we gaze upon the One who bore it all: the sin, the shame, the wrath, the weight of the world.
“Father, forgive them…”
(Luke 23:34)
These are the first words Jesus speaks as He is lifted up on the cross, battered and bleeding, surrounded by mocking crowds and Roman soldiers. Not words of anger. Not bitterness. But mercy. Forgiveness.
He speaks it not just over the crowd before Him—but over all of us. We, too, are among those who “do not know what we are doing.” And yet, even in our ignorance, even in our rebellion, Jesus intercedes on our behalf.
This is the heart of the Gospel: forgiveness, freely given. Mercy when we least deserve it. A Savior who pleads for us, even in our worst moments.
“Today you will be with me in paradise.”
(Luke 23:43)
Next to Jesus hangs a man condemned, guilty by all human standards. And yet, when he dares to ask Jesus to remember him, Jesus responds with a promise of eternal life. This moment is stunning—Jesus, in the midst of His own agony, extends grace to a dying man who simply turns toward Him in faith.
It’s a reminder that no one is ever too far gone. Paradise is not for the perfect, but for the penitent. Even in our last breath, Jesus welcomes us home.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
(Matthew 27:46)
These words pierce the heart. The Son of God, who had known unbroken communion with the Father, now feels the desolate silence of abandonment. He steps into the deepest darkness, the absence of God’s presence—what we might call hell itself.
Some of us have known that darkness too—grief, pain, loneliness, doubt. And yet, because Jesus entered that place, we know we are not alone there. He has gone before us. He understands. He is with us even when we cannot feel Him.
“It is finished.”
(John 19:30)
These words are not a sigh of defeat. They are a declaration of victory. The mission is complete. The price has been paid. Sin has been dealt with, once and for all.
It is finished—but we are not. Our story, our transformation, our calling begins here. At the cross, everything changes.
“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
(Luke 23:46)
Even in His final breath, Jesus chooses trust. He surrenders, not in despair, but in faith. His life began in surrender—“not my will, but yours be done”—and it ends the same way.
Can we say the same? In our fear, in our suffering, in our uncertainty—can we entrust ourselves into the hands of the Father?
On Good Friday, we don’t rush past the sorrow. We sit with it. We feel the weight of it. We recognize that the gift of redemption, while free to us, cost Jesus everything.
We remember His tears over Jerusalem, and now we weep over Him. Over the injustice. Over the brutality.
And we let it change us.
We live now in the shadow of the cross—where mercy flows freely, where grace is abundant, and where love is written in blood.
The Invitation
So today, as we remember the agony and awe of the cross, may we also reflect on how it shapes our lives:
- Where do you need to receive forgiveness?
- Who do you need to extend forgiveness to?
- Where have you felt abandoned—and how can you invite Jesus into that pain?
- Are you willing to say, “Into Your hands I commit my spirit”? To surrender all, even in the dark?
This is the invitation of Good Friday: to come, to pause, to grieve, and to trust. To let the cross draw us back to the heart of the Father.
May this day give us pause.
May it fill us with deep gratitude.
And may it lead us to live as people transformed by the love of a crucified Savior.
He died that we might live.