Holy Week | Good Friday (The Seven Words)

The verdict was clear: guilty. Not for Jesus, but for us. Yet, the innocent One stood silent as the guilty walked free. He was flogged so we could be healed. He was forsaken so we could be accepted. He was condemned so the condemned could go free. This was no accident. No tragic twist of fate. This was the plan—the ransom paid in blood. As we stand before the cross tonight, we face the weight of
what He endured, but we do not bear it alone. Jesus bore it for us. And in that darkness, a promise shines: It is finished.

Transcript

"Father, forgive them, for they know do not know what they are doing." (Luke 23:34)
Forgiveness? For them? For the ones who pressed the thorns into His skull? For the soldiers who drove nails into His hands? For the leaders who schemed, the crowd who mocked, the disciples who fled? For us? Yes. He prays it as the hammer falls, as blood pools beneath Him. He asks the Father to forgive—not after an apology, not after remorse, but in the act of their sin. Who does that? Not us. We hold grudges. We replay offenses like a song stuck on repeat. The wound festers. The bitterness takes root. Some hurts feel too deep to heal, too unfair to release.
Yet from the cross, Jesus prays, not because they deserve it, but because He is paying the price. This is the ransom for the unforgivable. The Son bearing the weight of every sin—including the ones that have wounded you. The sin against you? He died for that. The betrayal? He carried that too. The words that shattered you? He felt them like a whip against His back. And still, He prays: "Father, forgive them." Not because sin is small, but because His mercy is greater.
What about the sins you carry? The ones you’ve shoved into the corners of your memory, hoping God doesn’t see? The words you regret, the choices you can’t undo? Hear Jesus’ prayer. The ransom is paid. Forgiveness is not a theory. It is not a wish. It is a blood-sealed reality.

Prayer: Lord Jesus, if You can forgive them, You can forgive me. If Your mercy stretches that far, let it stretch into my heart. Teach me to live in the ransom You paid. Amen.

"Today you will be with me in paradise." (Luke 23:43)
The thief had nothing to offer. No good works. No moral track record. No time left to make up for his sins. He was a man society had deemed worthless, hanging there in the final shame of his crime. But in his dying breath, he turns to Jesus. Not with a resume. Not with a bargain. Just with a desperate plea: “Jesus, remember me.”

It’s a deep word—remember. In the Old Testament, when God “remembered” someone, He acted in mercy. He remembered Noah and stilled the flood. He remembered Rachel and opened her womb. To be “remembered” by God is to be rescued. The thief doesn’t ask for much—only that Jesus think of him. Even if it meant being in hell, if Christ would only remember him, that would be enough. But Jesus does far more. "Today you will be with me in paradise." Not forgotten. Not discarded. With me. 

Some days, do you feel like this thief? Like you’ve failed too much, fallen too far, that you’re hanging on by a thread? Maybe others have made you feel unworthy of love. Maybe you’ve told yourself the same lie. But hear Jesus: The ransom is paid. Not for the put-together, but for the desperate. Not for the lovable, but for the lost. And paradise? It is not a place you earn, but a gift you are given. A promise sealed in blood.

Prayer: Lord Jesus, when I feel unworthy, remind me of the thief. When I doubt Your love, let me hear Your promise. Remember me, O Lord, and take me home. Amen.

"Woman, behold your son... Behold your mother." (John 19:26-27)
Mary stood at the foot of the cross, watching her son die. The hands she once held as He took His first steps now twitched in agony. The lips that had once called her “Mama” were cracked and bleeding. Had she remembered the words of Simeon? “A sword will pierce your own soul too” (Luke 2:35). That sword was now buried deep. And yet, in His dying hours, Jesus looked at her. He saw her grief, her emptiness, her need. And He provided. “Woman, behold your son,” He said, nodding toward John. “Behold your mother.”
It was more than a last request. It was a ransom for the needy. The One who bore the sins of the world still bore the burdens of the people He loved. Even in His suffering, He saw her. And in John, He gave her family—a place to belong, a reminder that she was not alone.
This is what He does. He meets you in your need. The cross is not just about eternity; it is about this moment, your pain, your loneliness. Jesus sees the mother who grieves a wayward child, the husband staring at an empty chair, the young woman longing for love but afraid of rejection. He sees you. And in the ransom He paid, He gives you family—not just by blood, but by the Spirit. A Church, a home, a people to call your own. In the body of Christ, no one is forgotten. No one is left alone. At the cross, even in His dying breath, Jesus makes sure of it.

Prayer: Lord, in my need, remind me that You see me. In my loneliness, remind me that You have given me family. Let me live in the ransom You paid. Amen.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Matthew 27:46)
Darkness. At noon, the sun fled from the sky. The world held its breath as Jesus cried out—not in pain, not in exhaustion, but in abandonment. The eternal Son, the One who had forever known perfect communion with the Father, was now utterly alone. Why? Because this was the ransom. Forsaken, so you never would be.
Have you ever felt abandoned? Left alone in grief? Silenced by suffering? Maybe your prayers have felt like they hit the ceiling, like God is looking the other way. Maybe you've wondered, Where are You, Lord? Why don’t You answer? Jesus knows that feeling. More than that—He has lived it. But here’s the difference. When you feel forsaken, you aren’t. When Jesus was forsaken, He truly was. The weight of sin—your sin, my sin, the whole world's sin—crushed Him. The Father turned away, not because He stopped loving the Son, but because the Son had become the curse for us.

And yet, even in the cry of abandonment, there is hope. "My God." Even in His forsakenness, Jesus clings to the Father. And in that moment, the price is paid. The ransom is complete. So when you feel alone, when suffering blinds you to God’s presence, when your soul cries out, “Why?”—remember the cross. Jesus was forsaken so that you never would be. And because of Him, you never will be.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, in my moments of doubt, remind me that You were forsaken for me. When I feel abandoned, let me cling to the truth: You will never leave me. Amen.

"I thirst." (John 19:28)

The One who spoke rivers into existence. The One who turned water into wine, who offered living water to the woman at the well—now cries out in thirst. It is more than physical. It is the parched emptiness of a soul bearing the weight of hell itself. The punishment of sin is separation from God, and that is a desert no human can survive.
Have you ever felt spiritually dry? Like your prayers are empty words, like worship feels hollow? Have you chased after things that promised refreshment—success, pleasure, approval—only to be left thirstier than before? Sin dehydrates the soul. And no earthly well can quench it.
But Jesus thirsted so you could drink deeply. He took on the dryness of sin so that you could know the cool, rushing waters of grace. “Whoever believes in me,” He said, “out of them will flow rivers of living water” (John 7:38). So come. Drink. Not from the wells of this world that always run dry. But from the pierced side of the Savior, from the grace that flows like a river.
The ransom is paid. The well is full.

Prayer: Lord, I thirst for You. Forgive me for running to empty wells. Fill me with the living water only You can give. Amen.

"It is finished." (John 19:30)

Not "I am finished." Not "It is almost done." It is finished. The debt, erased. The curse, lifted. The sacrifice, complete.
How often do we live as if the work isn’t done? We think we need to prove ourselves, to clean ourselves up before coming to God. We measure our worth by our achievements, our spiritual "progress," our ability to be better. But the gospel isn’t about doing. It’s about done.
On the cross, Jesus carried your every failure. Every moment of weakness. Every sin you thought you could never shake. And He finished it.
So why do we keep trying to finish what He has already completed? Why do we carry guilt that has already been nailed to the cross? Why do we try to earn love that has already been poured out? Rest, dear Christian. It is finished. The ransom is paid.

Prayer: Lord, I try so hard to finish what You have already done. Help me to trust in Your perfect work and rest in Your finished grace. Amen.

"Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." (Luke 23:46)
His work was done, but His faith was not. With His final breath, Jesus surrenders everything into the Father’s hands. Have you ever struggled to trust God? When the future is uncertain? When suffering clouds your faith? Have you ever doubted whether He really sees you, really holds you, really cares?
Jesus shows us what perfect trust looks like—not in a moment of comfort, but in the valley of death itself. And He does it for us. Because we doubt. We wrestle. We hesitate. We hold back pieces of our lives from the Father’s hands, afraid to let go, afraid of what surrender might cost.
But see Jesus. See His trust, even in the dark. And know this: The hands He entrusted His spirit to are the same hands that hold you. The hands that shaped the stars. The hands that were pierced for your ransom. The hands that will one day wipe every tear from your eyes. So trust. Even when you don’t understand. Even when faith feels like a struggle. Even when you wonder if God is really there. He is. And His hands will never let you go.
Prayer: Father, into Your hands I place my doubts, my fears, my whole life. Help me to trust, even in the dark. Amen.