She crossed and uncrossed her ankles, she grasped the arms of her wooden chair which was just a little too rigid to be at least bearably comfortable. Her eyes quickly shifted from one dark floor corner of the testimony box to the other. Every nerve in her body was a live wire, and she gave a little jolt when she realized all the noise in the room had stopped. She dared not look up. This was a different kind of trial, and she was terrified.
She became a statue when she heard him begin to address all gathered in the old court room. Though the Prosecutor’s voice was smooth as silk, each word felt like he was sinking his claws deeper and deeper into the flesh of her back. When he addressed her, if felt as though the claws that were buried so deep ripped all the flesh free from her ribs. She gasped a little. He called out her name to get her to look at him, and she felt a wave of repulsion. She suddenly felt like she was going to be violently sick. She could only bring her eyes to the top railing of the stand. He called her name again, mockingly sweet this time. She turned her face away, her eyes shifting towards her speaker. Their eyes locked finally and her blood ran cold as ice. She could see nothing but those coal black eyes piercing right through her. She would’ve given anything to be able to look away, but found she could not, ensnared by some forceful hold that would keep her there. Snickering from the benches behind him. Her palms began to sweat as he pulled a scroll from his briefcase, not breaking eye contact with her. He slowly unraveled it, still staring through her, and then smirked at her obvious extreme discomfort. His eyes traveled down to the scroll and he began to read her life story to her and the audience. A dark and cruel version that made her begin to tremble so hard that the chains that bound her to her chair began to tinkle. All her failures, all her poor choices, all her mistakes, every time she had done something hateful or harsh to another. Her whole body began to tremble, she lowered her eyes in shame, and it felt as though someone were shovelling wet concrete on top of her with each mentioned sin.
She was finding it hard to breathe, each breath a rasp as her ribs began to cave under the weight of her shame and sorrow and guilt. She was sure she was drowning, but the only water around was that which was leaking from the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks. Her face slowly contorted in agony as the Prosecutor went on relentlessly, occasionally stoping to add in a distasteful jest that made the onlookers jeer and laugh mockingly at her. After what seemed like an eternity, the scroll was ended.
He turned to her once more and addressed her in a cool voice, “What have you to say for yourself, who will come to your defense? Have you anyone to dare defend and intercede for you?” The Prosecutor stalked closer to her stand, his hungry black eyes promising capital punishment if she could not produce a defense.
She tried to swallow but it was of no use. She tried to blink through her tear glazed eyes, searching desperately for a familiar face in her audience. Her hope was beginning to fail, and so she closed her eyes, her forehead creasing and her eyebrows coming together as she hung her head and sobbed out one name.
And like a rush of water, the shackles and chains fell from her wrists. She peered up at her right hand as Someone took it in his own. He placed his other hand on her shoulder and hugged her to his side and helped her to stand from her chair. The audience hissed and the Prosecutor gave a very grim scowl. She buried her face into her Lord and Saviour’s chest and wept. “Jesus, I’m..I’m.. so .. s’rry..,” she gasped through tears. He lifted her chin and looked down into her tear washed face and smiled softly. Peace flooded her being. The LORD looked up at the Prosecutor, his face becoming very solemn.
Slowly he lifted his hand from where it had clasped hers and held it up for the audience and Prosecutor to see. The young woman stared in awe at the dime-sized hole that went all the way through the back of the hand to the palm. “I have bought her with my blood, and she is mine.”
The Prosecutor stood perfectly still as the audience erupted in an outraged roar. Giving into the rage building up in himself, the Prosecutor slammed down the scroll onto his table, only to jump back in bewilderment as it burst into flames when it hit the old mahogany. It burnt with a fire that left behind no refuse. The audience poured from the court room in a chaotic flood of bodies. With an unearthly snarl, the Prosecutor snatched up his briefcase and slammed the court room doors behind him as he left.
[Colossians 1: 13-29]