Calvary's Walk

I wrote this poem a few years ago as I worshipped at the foot of the cross on Holy Week. This morning, it became motivation to students I work with in a discipleship program. I felt called to share that encouragement here for any of you as we walk through Holy Week Together.

As we step into this sacred week, we are not just remembering something that happened—we are being drawn into something that is still speaking. Holy Week is not distant or quiet history; it is alive with the weight of what was done and the love that carried it through. It invites us closer than we are often comfortable going—not just to see the cross, but to understand why it was necessary.

There is a tension in this week that we cannot ignore. Yes, it is beautiful. Yes, it is victorious. But it is also marked by deep sorrow, betrayal, injustice, and suffering that is almost too much to look at. We often approach Easter with clean hands and lifted hearts, but Holy Week asks us to come with honest ones—to recognize that the cross was not just something Jesus endured, but something our sin required.

There’s a line that echoes deeply in a song by Josiah Queen: “Maybe I’m like Judas? Maybe I’m that thief? Maybe I’m that sinner that put You on that tree… and I did it all for free.” And if we are willing to sit with that—not in condemnation, but in truth—it shifts everything. Because suddenly, the cross is no longer just a symbol of love. It becomes personal. It was my wandering, my pride, my hidden sin, my choosing of other things over Him. And yet—He still chose the cross.

Every step toward Calvary was not forced or accidental; it was intentional love moving forward in the face of unimaginable cost. He walked through betrayal, knowing it would come. He endured the silence. He carried the weight of sin He never committed. And still, He did not turn away.

This is the week where we slow down enough to actually see it—

the crowds shouting for His death

the disciples scattered in fear

the sky growing dark

the silence from heaven

the body breaking

the blood falling

the cross standing

And somehow, in the middle of all of it, love remains. Not a distant love or a symbolic love, but a love that stayed. A love that absorbed what we deserved. A love that bore what we could not carry.

It is so easy to rush forward, to skip ahead to the empty tomb, to the celebration and the victory. But if we don’t sit here first, we will never fully understand what that victory cost. Before resurrection, there was surrender. Before triumph, there was suffering. Before the crown, there was the cross. And when we allow ourselves to truly sit in that, something begins to shift within us.

We begin to understand that this was never about exposing our guilt—it was about removing it. It was never about holding our sin over us—it was about lifting it off of us. It was never about leaving us in shame—it was about calling us out of it.

At Calvary, Jesus did not carry something abstract—He carried everything. Every hidden place, every regret, every failure, every wound we don’t speak about. He carried it fully, completely, and willingly—not reluctantly, not halfway, not conditionally. He carried it with you in mind.

And even now, His voice still speaks through what He finished: you are not beyond grace, you are not too far gone, you are not what your past says about you. Because the cross has already spoken, and it has the final word.

So this week, don’t just think about the story—enter it. Sit with Him in the garden where surrender cost something. Stand at the foot of the cross where love was fully displayed. Feel the weight of what was given, not to crush you, but to free you. Let it undo you, let it humble you, let it bring you into a deeper awe of who He is and what He has done.

Because Holy Week is not just about what Jesus went through. It is about what His sacrifice accomplished—once and for all—and what that now means for every part of your life.

Calvary's Walk by Kelsay Parrott

I took a walk to clear my mind,

But those words keep echoing inside—so defined.

“Crucify Him! King of the Jews!”

Like a herald shouting the daily news.

From my own lips, these cries rang out,

An innocent man was then led out.

Beaten until unrecognizable, mocked all the way—

The images are in my mind, there to stay.

I kept walking, up a hill, past a crowd of onlookers—

A man hanging on a cross, a sinner.

Yet His face glowed in a way I'd never seen before.

With one final breath, His spirit began to soar.

I continued to walk, my heart heavy and downcast,

Another hung there, his expression aghast.

His face as dark as the blood pouring out,

With one final breath, his spirit let out a shout.

Tears flood my eyes, pouring down my cheeks.

Was I to blame for these deaths so bleak?

The hill stands silent now, as darkness starts to cover.

I fall to my knees, beginning to discover—

One more cross stood hanging high.

All the blood mixing with the tears I cry.

Suddenly, the man on it says, “Daughter, you are not to blame.

Lift your head, for you have no shame.”

My King—so torn, I didn’t recognize Him,

Facing a fate so cruel, so grim.

Yet forgiveness dripped in every drop He bled,

Each one falling gently on my head.

Adonai, the One who came to save,

Who would lay for three days in the grave.

With His final breath, a promise was made:

Every debt, for all, has been paid.

So I took a walk to clear my mind,

Those words still echoing, so defined:

“Daughter, you are not to blame.

Lift your head, for you have no shame.”

Reflection Questions:

• What does the cross truly mean to me—not in words, but in the way I live?

• Where in my life am I still carrying what Jesus already paid for?

• Have I fully received His forgiveness, or am I still holding onto shame?

• What would it look like to walk in the freedom He died to give me?

• How is the Lord inviting me to draw closer to Him this week?