DAILY CATHOLIC TUESDAY March 23, 1999 vol. 10, no. 57
These Meditative Lessons on the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary which encompass the Passion and Death of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ were imparted via both interior visions and interior locutions to Cyndi Cain, the Hidden Flower of the Immaculate Heart from the Blessed Mother of God during Lent in 1993. Cyndi relates that, "while I saw many details in these interior visions, only certain details were to be written down. Therefore, these lessons are not meant to be a detailed geographical or historical account, nor are they meant to pinpoint all the intricate details one might wish to have knowledge of regarding the Passion of Our Lord...for the importance of each lesson lies not in the descriptive passage or dialogue, but in Our Lady's own meditations which follow each interior vision. These meditations are meant to strengthen us in our faith during this our exile - particularly in these end times when the Holy Catholic Church will be ripped apart by apostasy and schism...for Our Blessed Mother wants our faith to be as strong as an anchor. For our faith to be such, we must have the faith of a simple, little child." During Lent we bring these to you and ask the Holy Spirit to give all the enlightenment and discernment to learn and grow from these meditative lessons that all may persevere in the time of the Great Darkness which looms ever closer. For those who would like the complete works of "It is Consummated!, as well as the books on the Joyful Mysteries - "Come, Let us Adore Him", and the Glorious Mysteries - "My Lord and my God!", and the 100 Meditative Lessons compiled in "THE HIDDEN WAY" click on BOOKS.
I am seized with terror and I donít understand why. It paralyses me and though I want to run, I find I am rooted to this spot where two small alley-like streets join. Far in the distance there can be heard a rumble. It grows. I turn in that direction and realize it is the ever-growing crowd near the Temple area which has heard of Jesusí arrest. There is even a faint reddish glow visible - the bonfires and torches.
But here, this lower street, is one of poverty and the residents are not about. Yet one must be because I hear the running steps, the pause, the footsteps along the rough street.
And from around the corner comes a figure, mantle flying out behind him; he runs haphazardly, constantly looking over his shoulder, trying to keep moving but hesitation as if he can hear his pursuers.
As he comes into the street where I stand pressed against a wall of thick stone, he pauses with his back to me. He pants. His hair is damp with perspiration, his clothing muddied and ripped where he has apparently fallen during his flight. He cocks his head. What is it he hears? The rumble of the distant crows? Does he know of Jesusí arrest?
He turns and now I see his face. The face of the betrayer - Judas Iscariot. I want to melt into the wall, so wild does he look. His eyes roll.
Saliva drips from his mouth like a mad, rabid dog. He presses his hands, which are dirty, scraped and bleeding in places and, shaking his head back and forth, moans in a hoarse, beastly cry: "No! Stop. The words burn me."
And then I am able to hear what he is hearing. Not from anyone standing beside him, but the very last vestiges of conscience and soul in their death agony.
IT IS CONSUMMATED!