Father Geoffrey was just finishing his stroll in Phoenix Park which was just a few minutes walk from St Giles-in-the-field Anglican church, where Father Geoffrey was presbyter.
He had always felt lucky that he was sent to St Giles for its closeness to the park. The priest was an ardent nature lover, and his nightly walks through the park helped to invigorate his faith in the Almighty.
He strode at a deliberate pace back to the hallowed grounds of the church taking in deep breaths and smelling the sweet smell of the grass and impending rain. He never minded the rain, it was good for the grass and animals. It was a covenant that God provided a way to feed the earth that He created.
“Pardon me, Father,” came a deep voice from behind the priest. It startled Father Geoffrey, who had not heard anyone approach, which he found odd, but passed it off as he had been in deep thought.
“Yes, my son?”
Father Geoffrey regarded the man, meerley a shape in the dusky night. He was tall and slender, hunched slightly at the shoulders. He wore a bowler and a satchel at his side.
“Father, I feel that I have committed a great sin, and I’m afraid I will commit even more. I could use you, Father. Please.”
Father Geoffrey took these words to heart. This man had come to him in desperate need of consolation. He was a grave sinner, and he had sought out the church to seek forgiveness. Father Geoffrey nodded solemnly.
“Of course, my son. Follow me to the rectory and we shall talk.”
They continued toward the church, on the way they passed by a great wych elm tree. The man stopped to admire it, and Father Geoffrey stopped, standing with him.
“Such a tree, is it not,” the priest spoke. “Only a benevolent God could create something so powerful and remarkable.”
The man simply stared at the tree, silent. After several minutes, the man spoke.
“You are familiar with psalms, father?”
“Of course. A beautiful portion of the Bible.”
“Then you know Psalms 22?”
“Ah, yes, a very important Psalm.”
The man turned to the priest.
“Indeed.”
The two stood in silence for a moment more before Father Geoffrey began to head back toward the church. As he turned, he was suddenly struck with an intense pain in his back, just above his hips. He fell to the ground gasping and clutching at his back.
He was turned over into the supine position, where he could see the man, the sinner, rummaging through his satchel. He held a hammer in his hand.
“God in heaven, man,” gasped the priest, “what are you doing?”
The man either did not hear the priest, or did not care. The man held the hammer aloft with the other and brought it crashing down into Father Geoffrey’s right knee, shattering it. The priest began to scream, but a large, cold hand muffled his cry. Another excruciating pain as his left knee was pulverised by the hammer.
Father Geoffrey was in too much pain to scream now. He simply groaned and muttered one question:
“Why?”
The man never spoke. Instead, he produced from his satchel three horseshoe nails. He grabbed Father Geoffrey by the frock and drug him towards the wych elm tree. He propped the priest up against the tree to resituate his grip on his instruments of pain, then he hefted his victim by his right arm.
The pain of being lifted by the wrist strained on Father Geoffrey’s shoulder. He had an idea of what the man had in store for him. He tried to remain calm, he tried to keep a level head. He knew that he was about to become a martyr.
“I forgive you, my son.”
The man made no response. Instead, he lined up a nail against Father Geoffrey’s wrist. The priest braced for the pain, and then, with a screaming, white hot agony, the nail was driven through his wrist with two powerful strokes.
The man let go of the arm, the strain of his own body weight pulled against the nail, tearing through tendon and muscle. The man lifted the other arm, and again, with a searing pain, another nail was driven in.
The man grabbed the priest’s feet, which sent a shock of wretched pain through his entire lower half. Roughly removing his shoes and socks, the man took the final nail and drove it through both feet. Now, hanging from the wych elm, Father Geoffrey was a perverted reconstruction of his beloved saviour.
The weight pulled on his upper body, his breathing became laboured as he tried to pull himself up by his wrists, driving hot trails of anguish through his arms. Father Geoffrey was resigned to his fate, much as Jesus had done so in Gethsemane, but he, also like Christ, had wished this cup had passed.
The man returned the hammer to his bag and drew from it a knife. He approached the crucified Father, brandishing the blade.
“They have pierced my hands and feet. I can count all my bones.”
With that, the man drove the knife into the soft flesh under Father Geoffrey’s left arm, dragging it down from underarm to hip. He did the same to the other side, in a sick form of symmetry. Father Geoffrey began to bleed profusely from his gashes.
The man stood back and beheld his work.
“And they pierced his side, and from it flowed blood and water.”
The priest could not fathom why this man was doing this, all he could do was suffer and hope that his Lord would bring him into the fold.
Father Geoffrey’s breathing became more shallow with each breath. He was able to gasp one final utterance.
“Father… into your hands… I…”
With that, Father Geoffrey expired.
The man looked upon his work grimly. He took the knife, and above the head of the crucified priest, he began to etch a sign into the bark of the wych elm.