Christ's Passion Hour from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m.

The 24 Hours of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Christ's Passion Hour from 9 a.m. to 10 a.m.

Preparation Prayer Before Each Hour

Christ's Passion Hour from 11 a.m. to 12 p.m.

From 10 a.m. to 11 a.m.

Jesus takes up the Cross and walks toward Calvary, where He is stripped.

My Jesus, unquenchable love, I see you take no rest. I hear your ravings of love and your pains. Your heart is pounding; and in every beat I hear bursts, tortures and violences of love. Unable to contain the fire that is devouring you, you become anxious, you groan, you sigh. And in every groan I hear you say, Cross! Each drop of your blood repeats, Cross! You are swimming in the endless sea of all your pains which repeat among themselves, Cross! And you exclaim:

�O beloved and longed�for cross, you alone will save my children; and in you I concentrate all my love.�

Meanwhile, your enemies make you enter the praetorium again. Wanting to put your garments back on you, they remove the purple mantle. But, oh, what pain! It would be sweeter for me to die than to see you suffer so! The garment snags on the crown and they can't remove it. So, with cruelty never before seen, they tear off together both the clothing and the crown. At the cruel pull many thorns break and remain fixed in your most holy head. Blood runs down in little streams, and the pain is so intense that you groan. But not caring about your torments, your enemies put your garment back on you. Again they put the crown on you; and pressing it deep into your head, the thorns enter your eyes and your ears, such that there is no part of your most holy head which does not feel their punctures. The pain is so intense that you stagger under those cruel hands, and you tremble from head to foot. Among atrocious spasm you are about to die. Your eyes being weak and filled with blood, you can hardly look at me to ask my help in so much pain.

My Jesus, king of sorrows, let me hold you up and press you to my heart. I would like to take the fire that is devouring you to reduce your enemies to ashes and so free you. But you don't want this, because your longings for the cross are increasing, and you want to immolate yourself on it at once, even for your very enemies! As I press you to my heart, you press me to your, and say to me:

�My child, let me vent my love. Together with me, make reparation for those who dishonor me in the good they do. These Jews dress me in my garments in order to further discredit me before the people and to convince them that I am a criminal. The act of dressing me apparently was good, but in itself it was evil. Yes, how many do good works, administer sacraments and receive them with human and even evil purposes. But to do good in a malicious way hardens the person. And I want to be crowned a second time, with pains more biting than the first, to break this hardness, and so with my thorns, draw them to me. Yes, my child, this second crowning is much more painful for me. I feel my head, as it were, swimming in thorns; and at every movement I make or shove they give me, I suffer so many cruel deaths. With this, I make reparation for the malice of sins; I make reparation for those who, regardless of the state of soul they are in, instead of occupying themselves with their own sanctification, dissipate themselves and reject my grace, thus giving me thorns all over again, which are even more biting. Meanwhile, I am forced to groan, to weep with tears of blood and to long for their salvation. O I do everything to love them and creatures do everything to offend Me! Yes, I do everything to love them, and creatures do everything to offend me! At least you be one who does not leave me alone, to suffer and make reparations by myself.�

My tortured Jesus, I make reparation and suffer with you. I see that your enemies push you down the steps, while the mob is waiting for you with fury and eagerness. They have you find the cross already prepared, which you are seeking with great longing. You look at it with love, and go straight to it, to embrace it. But first you kiss it; and as a shiver of joy surges through your most holy humanity, you look at it with the utmost contentment, measuring its length and width. You now establish the portion in it for each creature. You endow them with sufficient cross in order to bind them to the divinity with a nuptial bond and make them heirs of the kingdom of heaven. Then, unable to contain the love with which you love them, you kiss the cross again, and say to it:

�Adorable cross, I embrace you at last! You were the longing of my heart, the martyrdom of my love. You, O cross, lingered until now, while my steps were always directed toward you. Holy cross, you were the goal of my desires, the purpose of my existence here below. In you I concentrate my whole being; in you I place all my children. You will be their life and their light, their defense, their guard and their strength. You will come to their assistance in everything and will bring them to me glorious, in heaven. O cross, seat of wisdom, you alone will teach true holiness; you alone will form heroes, athletes, martyrs and saints. Beautiful cross, you are my throne; and having to depart from the earth myself, you will remain in my place. I give all souls to you as your dowry. Keep them for me, save them for me; I entrust them to you.�

With this, you anxiously receive the cross on your most holy shoulders. Yes, my Jesus, for your love it is too light; but to the weight of the cross there is added that of our sins, enormous and immense as the expanse of the heavens. My overwhelmed Jesus, you feel crushed under the weight of so many sins. Your soul is horrified by their sight, and you feel the pain of each sin. In the face of so much ugliness, your holiness is shaken. Therefore, as you take the cross on your shoulders, you stagger, you gasp; and a mortal sweat trickles from your most sacred humanity. No, my love, I don't have the heart to leave you alone. I want to share the weight of the cross with you. To relieve you of the weight of sins, I embrace your feet. In the name of all creatures I want to give you love for those who do not love you; praise for those who despise you; blessings, thanksgiving and obedience for everyone. I promise that in any offense you receive, I intend to offer you my whole being to make reparation to you, to do the act contrary to the offense creatures commit against you and to console you with my kisses and continual acts of love.

But I see I am too miserable. I need you in order to truly make reparation to you. So, I unite myself to your most holy humanity. Together with you, I join my thoughts to yours to make reparation for my evil thoughts and those of everyone. I join my eyes to yours to make reparation for evil glances. I join my mouth to yours to make reparation for blasphemies and evil discourses. I join my heart to yours to make reparation for evil tendencies, desires and affections. In a word, I want to make reparation for all that your most holy humanity does, by uniting myself to the immensity of your love for everyone and to the immense good that you do to everyone.

But I am not yet content. I want to unite myself to your Divinity, and I dissolve my nothingness in It, and in this way I give You everything. I give You your Love to quench your bitternesses; I give You your Heart to relieve You from our coldness, lack of correspondence, ingratitude, and the little love of the creatures. I give You your Harmonies to cheer your hearing from the deafening blasphemies it receives. I give You your Beauty to relieve You from the ugliness of our souls, when we muddy ourselves in sin. I give You your Purity to relieve You from the lack of righteous intention, and from the mud and rot You see in many souls. I give You your Immensity to relieve You from the voluntary constraints into which souls put themselves. I give You your Ardor to burn all sins and all hearts, so that all may love You, and no one may offend You, ever again. In sum, I give You all that You are, to give You infinite satisfaction, eternal, immense and infinite love.

The Painful Way to Calvary

My most patient Jesus, I see you are taking your first steps under the enormous weight of the cross. I join my steps to yours. When you are weak, bleeding, staggering and about to fall, I will be by your side to raise you up. I will put my shoulders under the cross to share its weight with you. Do not turn me away, but accept me for your faithful companion. O Jesus, you look at me; and I see that you are making reparation for those who do not carry their own cross with resignation, who instead curse, become angry, commit homicides and suicide. And with your entreaties you obtain love and resignation for everyone, for their own cross. The pain is so intense that you feel as if your were being crushed under the cross. You have taken but the first steps, and already you fall under it. As you fall you hit against the rocks. The thorns are driven deeper into your head, while your pains are sharpened and all your wounds let more blood. And since you don't have the strength to get up, your enemies become angry and try to get you to your feet with kicks and shoves.

My fallen love, let me help you to your feet, kiss you, wipe away the blood, and together with you make reparation for those who sin out of ignorance, frailty and weakness. And I pray you to give help to these souls. My life, Jesus, with unspeakable torments, your enemies manage to bring you to your feet. As you stagger on, I hear your labored breath. Your heart pounds harder, and new intense pains transfix it. Now you shake your head to free your eyes of the blood that fills them, and anxiously look. Yes, my Jesus, now I understand perfectly: It is your mother, who, like a mournful dove is searching for you. She wants to say a last word to you and receive one last look from you. You feel her pains, and her heart lacerated in yours and moved to compassion and wounded by her love and yours. Now you see her making her way through the mob. At any cost she wants to see you, embrace you and give you her last goodbye.

But you are more transfixed to see her deathly paleness and all your pains reproduced in her by force of love. If she lives it is only by a miracle of your almighty power. Now you are directing your steps toward her, but you can hardly look at each other. Oh, what a rent to the heart of both! The soldiers become aware, and with knocks and shoves keep mother and son from saying goodbye. The anguish of both is so immense that your mother is petrified by the sorrow, and is about to faint, while you again fall under the cross. Faithful John and the pious women hold her up. Then, what your sorrowful mother does not do bodily because she can't, she does with her soul. She enters into you, making the Will of the Eternal One her own; and associating herself with all your pains, she mothers you, kisses you, makes reparation, soothes you, and pours the ointment of her sorrowful love on all your wounds.

My suffering Jesus, I too join with your transfixed mother. I make all your pains mine. I want to mother you in every drop of your blood and in every wound. Together with you and with her I want to make reparation for all the dangerous encounters and for those who expose themselves to the occasions of sin, or being constrained by the necessity to expose themselves, become entangled in sin. Meanwhile, fallen under the cross, you moan.

The soldiers are afraid you may die under the weight of so many martyrdoms and for the shedding of so much blood. So, by means of lashes and kicks they manage to get you to your feet. With this, you make reparation for the repeated falls into sin and for the grave sins committed by every class of person; and you pray for obstinate sinners, weeping tears of blood for their conversion. My exhausted love, while I am following you in your reparations, I see you cannot bear the enormous weight of the cross any longer. You are now trembling from head to foot. With the continual knocks you receive, the thorns penetrate ever deeper into your most sacred head. The heavy weight of the cross makes it sink deeper into your shoulder, forming a wound so deep that the bones are laid bare. It seems to me that you die at each step, and so it is impossible for you to go on.

But your love, which can do everything, gives you strength. As you feel the cross sinking into your shoulder you make reparation for hidden sins, which, not having been satisfied for, increase the bitterness of your torments. My Jesus, let me put my shoulder under the cross to relieve you and to make reparation with you for all hidden sins. Fearing that you may die under the cross, your enemies force the Cyrenian to help you carry it. Unwilling and grumbling, he helps you, not out of love but by force. Then, in your heart there echo all the complaints of those who suffer, the lack of resignation, the rebellions, the anger and the contempt in suffering. But you are transfixed much more to see that the souls consecrated to you, whom you call as companions and help in your suffering, escape from you. If you draw them to yourself through suffering, unfortunately they free themselves from your arms to go in search of pleasures, leaving you like this, to suffer alone. My Jesus, while I am making reparation with you, I pray you to clasp me so tightly in your arms that there won't be any pain you suffer which I do not share with you, to transform myself into them, and to compensate you for the abandonment of all creatures.

My exhausted Jesus, you can hardly walk, and you are bent low. I see that you stop, and try to look. My heart, what is it? What do you want? Yes, it is Veronica, who, fearing nothing, courageously wipes your blood-covered face with a cloth, while you leave your impression on it as a sign of gratitude. My generous Jesus, I too want to dry you, not with a cloth, but by offering my whole being to relieve you. O Jesus, I want to enter into your interior and give you heartbeat for heartbeat, breath for breath, affection for affection, desire for desire. I intend to cast myself into your most holy intelligence. And making all these heartbeats, breaths, affections and desires flow in the immensity of your Will, I intend to multiply them to the infinite. O my Jesus, I want to form waves of heartbeats so that no evil heartbeat will echo in your heart, and in this way soothe all your interior bitternesses. I intend to form waves of affections and of desires to drive away all the evil affections and desires that could sadden your heart in the least. Furthermore, I intend to form waves of breaths and of thoughts to drive away any breath or thought that could displease you in the least. I will be on guard, O Jesus, so that nothing else may afflict You, adding more bitterness to your interior pains.

O my Jesus, please, let all of my interior swim in the immensity of yours; in this way I will be able to find enough love and will, so that no evil love may enter your interior, nor a will which may displease You. O my Jesus, to be more certain, I pray You to seal my thoughts with Yours, my will with Yours, my desires with Yours, my affections and heartbeats with Yours; so that, being sealed, they may take no life but from You. I ask You, again, O my Jesus, to accept my poor body which I would want to tear to shreds for love of You, and reduce it to tiny little pieces, to place over each one of your wounds. On that wound, O Jesus, which gives You pain from so many blasphemies, I place a little piece of my body, wanting it to say to You constantly: �I bless You�. On that wound that gives You so much pain from the many ingratitudes, I intend, O Jesus, to place a portion of my body, to prove my gratitude to You. On that wound, O Jesus, which makes You suffer so much from coldness and lack of love, I intend to place many little bits of my flesh, to say to You constantly: �I love You, I love You, I love You!� On that wound which gives You so much pain from the so many irreverences to your Most Holy Person, I intend to place a piece of myself, to tell You always: �I adore You, I adore You, I adore You!� O my Jesus, I want to diffuse myself in everything, and in those wounds embittered by the many misbelieves, I desire that the shreds of my body tell You, always: �I believe �I believe in You, O my Jesus, my God, and in your Holy Church, and I intend to give my life to prove my Faith to You!� O my Jesus, I plunge myself into the immensity of your Will, and making It my own, I want to compensate for all, and enclose the souls of all in the power of your Most Holy Will.

O Jesus, I still have my blood left, which I want to pour over your wounds as balm and soothing liniment, in order to relieve You and heal You completely. Again, I intend, O Jesus, to make my thoughts flow in the heart of every sinner, to reprimand him continuously, that he may not dare to offend You. And I pray to You with the voice of your Blood, so that all may surrender to my poor prayers. In this way I will be able to bring them into your Heart! Another grace, O my Jesus, I ask of You: that in everything I see, touch and hear, I may see, touch and hear always You; and that your Most Holy Image and your Most Holy Name, always be impressed in every particle of my poor being.

Meanwhile, your enemies look with contempt at Veronica's deed, and they whip you, shove you and make you move on. A few more steps, and you stop again. your love does not stop under the weight of so many pains. seeing the pious women weeping over your pains, you forget yourself and console them with these words:

�Daughters, do not weep over my pains, but over your sins and over your children.�

What a sublime lesson! How gentle is your word! O Jesus, I make reparation with you for the lacks of charity, and I ask you for the grace of making me forget myself so that I will remember nothing but you alone. Hearing you speak, your enemies go into a rage. They jerk you with the ropes and angrily shove you, so you fall. As you fall you strike against the rocks. The weight of the cross torments you, and you feel yourself dying. Let me hold you up and protect your most holy face with my hands. I see you on the ground, gasping in your blood. Your enemies want to get you on your feet: They pull you with the ropes, they raise you up by the hair, they kick you�but all in vain. You are dying, my Jesus. What grief! My heart breaks for the sorrow.

Practically dragging you, they bring you to Mount Calvary. While they are dragging you I perceive that you are making reparation for all the sins of the souls consecrated to you, who weigh you down so heavily, that, in spite of all your efforts to get up, you can't. And so, dragged and trampled, you reach Calvary, leaving red traces of your precious blood wherever you pass. New sufferings are waiting for you here. They strip you again, tearing off your garments and the crown of thorns. Yes, you groan as you feel the thorns being torn from your head. As they tear off your clothes they rip off the lacerated flesh stuck to them as well. The wounds are torn open; blood flows in little streams to the ground, and the pain is so intense that, almost dead, you fall. But no one is moved to compassion for you, my Jesus. On the contrary, with the fury of wild beasts, they again put the crown of thorns on you and drive it onto your head. You are so tormented by the lacerations and by the tearing of your hair, all stuck together in the dried blood, that only the angels could say what you suffer, while horrified, they turn away their heavenly gazes and weep. My stripped Jesus, let me press you to my heart to warm you, for I see you are trembling, and that a cold mortal sweat spreads over your most holy humanity. How I would like to give my life and my blood to substitute yours, which you have lost to give me life!

Meanwhile, looking at me with his fading and dying eyes, Jesus seems to say to me:

�My child, how much souls cost me! Here is the place where I am waiting for everyone in order to save them. This is the place where I want to make reparation for the sins of those who go so far as to degrade themselves below the beasts, and who persist so much in offending me that they even reach the point of not being able to live without committing sins. Their reason is blinded and they sin madly. This is why they crown me with thorns for the third time. And by being stripped, I am making reparation for those who wear luxurious or indecent dress; for the sins committed against modesty; and for those who are so bound to riches, honors and pleasure that they make a god of them for their hearts. Oh, yes, each of these offenses is a death I feel, and if I do not die it is because the Will of my eternal Father has not yet decreed the moment of my death.�

My stripped Jesus, while I am making reparation with you, I pray you to strip me of everything with your most holy hands, and not to permit any evil affections to enter my heart. Keep watch over it for me, surround it with your pains and fill it with your love. May my life be none other than the repetition of your life; and confirm my dispossession with your blessing. Bless me from the heart, and give me the strength to assist at your sorrowful crucifixion, to remain crucified together with you.

Reflections and Practices.

Jesus� love for the Cross and his eager desire to die on it to save souls were immense! But do I love suffering like Jesus? Can I say that my heartbeats form the echo of his divine heartbeats and that I too ask for the Cross? When I suffer, do I have the intention of keeping Jesus company and of lightening the burden of his Cross? How do I accompany Him? With respect to the insults He receives, am I ready to offer Him a hand to lift Him up, and give Him my small sufferings to ease his pain? Are my eyes always fixed on Jesus, that I may wipe his mortal sweat and the Blood pouring from his Wounds, like an inseparable companion who never leaves Him? As I work, pray, and experience the weight of the intense pain and adversity of my suffering, do I allow my suffering to soar to Jesus to refresh Him like a veil wiping away his sweat? Do I make his difficulties my own?

O my Jesus, always call me to be at your side, and grant that You may always remain by me, walking with me through the whole sad pilgrimage of this life. Soar with me up the holy mountain of your Will�for You want me to reach it� and there we shall rest together. Grant that my pains and Yours may always merge�so that we hold each other�as I continuously wipe the Blood that pours from your most holy Wounds.

Prayer of Thanksgiving after Each Hour

Christ's Passion Hour from 9 a.m. to 10 a.m.

The 24 Hours of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Christ's Passion Hour from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m.

Preparation Prayer Before Each Hour

Christ's Passion Hour from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m.

From 9 a.m. to 10 a.m.
Jesus is crowned with thorns.

My Jesus, infinite love, the more I look at you the more I realize how much you suffer. You are lacerated all over; there is no sound part left in you. You torturers are enraged to see that despite all your pains you look at them with so much love. Your loving gaze forms a sweet enchantment, almost like so many voices that are praying and begging for more pains and new pains. So, these torturers�not only because they are inhuman, but forced as well by your love�get you to your feet. But, being unable to stand, you fall again in your own blood. Angered by this, with kicks and shoves, they make you reach the place where they will crown you with thorns. My love, if you don't sustain me with your look of love, I won't be able to continue to see you suffer.

I can already feel my bones shuddering. My heart is pounding. I feel I am dying. Jesus, Jesus, help me! My gentle Jesus says to me:

�My child, take courage. Do not lose anything of all that I have suffered. Be attentive to my teachings. I must completely make man over. Sin has taken away his crown, and has crowned him with such disgrace and confusion that he cannot come before my majesty. Sin has dishonored him, making him lose every right to honor and glory. So, in order to put the crown back on the forehead of man and give back to him all rights to every honor and glory, I want to be crowned with thorns. Before my Father, my thorns will be reparations and voices of forgiveness for so many sins of thought, especially those of pride, and voices of light to every created mind and of entreaty that they not offend me. So, join with me, and pray and make reparation together with me.�

Crowned Jesus, your pitiless enemies make you sit down, and they put a purple rag on you. They take the crown of thorns and with infernal fury put on your adorable head. Then, beating it with a stick they make it penetrate into your forehead; and part of the thorns go into your eyes, your ears, your head and even the back of your neck. My love, what agony! What unspeakable pains! How many cruel deaths you suffer! So much blood is already running down your face that nothing but blood can be seen. But under those thorns and blood I can see your most holy face radiant with gentleness, peace and love.

Wanting to complete the tragedy, your torturers blindfold you, put a reed in your hand as a scepter and begin their jests. They greet you, saying, �King of the Jews!� They hit the crown, they slap you and say,�Guess who struck you!� Your response is to remain silent, and to make reparation for the ambition of those who aspire to kingdoms, dignities and honors; for those who, finding themselves in such positions, by their wrong�doing cause the ruin of the peoples and of the souls entrusted to them; and for those whose bad example lead others into evil and cause the loss of souls.

With this reed you are holding in your hand, you make reparation for so many good works which are empty of interior spirit and are even done with evil intentions. In the insults you receive, you make reparation for those who ridicule the most sacred things, discrediting them and profaning them.

With the blindfold you have on, you make reparation for those who blindfold the eyes of their intelligence so they won't see the light of the truth. At the same time, you obtain for us the grace to remove the blindfolds of passions, riches and pleasures. My king, Jesus, your enemies continue to insult you. There is so much blood flowing from your most holy head that, entering even into your mouth, it keeps you from letting me hear your gentle voice clearly, and so I can't do what you are doing. Therefore, I come into your arms. I want to support your pierced and suffering head; and I want to put my head under those thorns to feel their punctures. As I am saying this, my Jesus calls me with his look of love�and I run. I cling to his heart, and do my best to support his head.

Oh! How wonderful it is to be with Jesus, even in the midst of a thousand torments! He says to me:

�My child, these thorns say that I want to be made king of every heart. All dominion is mine by right. Take these thorns, pierce your heart and make everything go out of it that does not belong to me. Leave a thorn in your heart as the seal to show I am your king and to keep anything else from entering into you. Then, go around to all hearts, piercing them to drive out all the smoke of pride and rottenness which they contain, and make me king of everyone.�

My love, it makes my heart ache to leave you. So, I pray you to deafen my ears with your thorns so that I may only hear your voice. Cover my eyes with your thorns so that I can look at you alone. Fill my mouth with your thorns so that my tongue may be mute to all that could offend you, and free to praise and bless you in everything. O my king, Jesus, surround me with thorns; and may these thorns keep me, defend me and make me all intent on you.

Now I want to dry the blood on you and kiss you, because I see that your enemies are taking you to Pilate who will condemn you to death. My love, help me to continue along your sorrowful way, and bless me. My crowned Jesus, my poor heart, wounded by your love and pierced by your pains, cannot live without you. So I search for you, and I find you again before Pilate. What a moving spectacle I see! The heavens are horrified and hell trembles with fear and rage! Life of my heart, I cannot bear to see you like this without feeling myself die, but the driving force of your love compels me to look at you, to make me thoroughly understand your pains. Among tears and sighs I contemplate you. My Jesus, you are nude. Instead of clothes, I see you dressed in blood. Your flesh is torn, your bones are laid bare, your most holy face is unrecognizable. The thorns are fixed in your most holy head, and even reach into your eyes and your face. I see nothing but blood which runs to the ground, forming a pool around your feet.

My Jesus, I can't recognize you anymore! Oh, how you are reduced! Your state has reached the most profound excesses of humiliations and torments! No, I can't bear such a painful sight any longer! I feel myself dying! I would like to snatch you away from Pilate's presence and enclose you in my heart to give you rest. I would like to heal your wounds with my love. With your blood I would like to flood the world to enclose all souls in it and bring them to you as the conquest of your pains.

O patient Jesus, it seems as though you are trying to look at me through the thorns; and you say to me:

�My child, come into these tied arms of mine. Rest your head on my breast and you will see more intense and bitter pains, because those you see on the outside of my humanity are but the overflowing of my interior pains. Pay attention to the heartbeats of my heart and you will hear that I am making reparation for the injustices of those who command; for the oppression of the poor; for the putting of the innocent after the guilty; for the pride of those who, to keep high offices, positions and riches, do not hesitate to break any law and to wrong their neighbor, closing their eyes to the light of the truth.�

�With these thorns I want to shatter the haughty spirit of their domination. With the openings they form in my head, I want to make my way into their minds to reorder all things in them according to the light of the truth. By being humiliated like this, before this unjust judge, I want to make everyone understand that virtue alone is what makes man king of himself. And I teach those who are in command that virtue, together with right knowledge, is alone worthy and capable of governing and ruling others, while all other dignities, without virtue, are dangerous and should be rejected. My child, repeat my reparations, and continue to pay attention to my pains.�

My love, I see that Pilate shudders to see you so pitifully reduced; and deeply impressed, he exclaims:

�Is such cruelty possible in human hearts? No, this was not my intention when I condemned him to the scourging.�

Overwhelmed, Pilate turns his eyes away because he can't bear to see such a painful sight. Then, wanting to free you from the hands of your enemies, in order to find more solid grounds he questions you again:

�Tell me: What have you done? Your people have turned you over to me. Tell me: Are you king? What is your kingdom?�

O my Jesus, you give no answer to Pilate's storm of questions; and, enclosed in yourself, you turn your thoughts to saving my poor soul at the cost of so many pains. Seeing that you don't answer him, Pilate adds:

�Don't you realize that it is in my power to free you or to condemn you?�

O my love, wanting to make the light of the truth shine in Pilate's mind, you answer:

�You would have no power over me if it had not been given to you from above. But those who have turned me over to you have committed a sin graver than yours .�

Then, moved by the gentleness of your voice, irresolute as he is, with his heart in a turmoil, Pilate decides to show you from the terrace, thinking that the hearts of the Jews are more compassionate, hoping that they will be moved to compassion to see you so lacerated. My suffering Jesus, my heart aches as I watch you following Pilate. You can hardly walk, curved under that horrible crown of thorns. Blood marks your steps. As you go outside you hear the riotous crown that is anxiously waiting for you to be condemned. Pilate imposes silence to get everyone's attention so he can be heard. With repugnance he takes the two edges of the purple rag that is covering your chest and your back, lifts them up to show everyone how you are reduced, and in a loud voice, says:

�Ecce homo!� Look at him: he no longer has the appearance of a man. Observe his wounds: he is unrecognizable. If he has done wrong, he has already suffered enough, even too much. I already regret having made him suffer like this. So, let us free him!�

Jesus, my love, let me hold you up, because I see that you are wavering, unable to stand under the weight of so many pains.

Now, in this solemn moment, your fate is decided. At Pilate's words a profound silence is heard in heaven, on earth and in hell. And then, as if they had a single voice, I hear everyone shout:

�Crucify him! Crucify him! At any cost we want him dead!�

Jesus, my life, I see you tremble. The cry of death descends into your heart. And in these voices you perceive the voice of your dear Father, who says:

�My Son, I want you dead, and dead by crucifixion!�

Yes, you hear the voice of your dear mother as well, who, though transfixed and desolate, echoes the voice of your dear Father:

�Son, I want you dead!�

The angels, the saints, hell, everyone in a unanimous voice shouts:

�Crucify him! Crucify him!�

So, there is no one who wants you alive. And oh, oh, to my greatest shame, pain and horror, I too feel compelled by a supreme force to cry:

�Crucify him!�

My Jesus, forgive me if I too, a miserable sinful soul, want you dead. But I pray you to make me die together with you. Meanwhile, O my anguished Jesus, moved by my pain, you seem to say to me:

�My child, press yourself to my heart and share in my pains and reparations. The moment is solemn. It must be decided: either my death, or the death of all creatures. In this moment two currents are poured into my heart. In one there are the souls, who, if they want me dead, it is because they want to find life in me. And so, by accepting death for them, they are absolved from eternal condemnation; and the gates of heaven are opened to receive them.

In the other current are those who want me dead out of hatred, and in confirmation of their condemnation. My heart is lacerated and feels the death of each of them, and the very pains of hell! My heart cannot bear these bitter pains. I feel death at every heartbeat and at every breath. And I repeat: Why will so much blood be shed in vain? Why will my pains be useless for many? Please help me, my child, because I can't take it any longer. Share my pains, and let your life be a continuous offering to save souls, to make such excruciating pains less painful for me.�

My heart, Jesus, your pains are mine, and I repeat your reparations. I see that Pilate is astonished, and he hurries to say:

�What? Must I crucify your king? I don't find any fault in him to condemn him!�

But the Jews shout, deafening the air:

�We have no king but Caesar; and if you don't condemn him you are no friend of Caesar. Take him away! Take him away! Crucify him! Crucify him!�

Not knowing what else to do, for fear of being removed from power, Pilate has a wash basin brought to him, washes his hands, and says:

�I am innocent of the blood of this just man.�

And he condemns you to death.

But the Jews cry out:

�His blood be upon us and upon our children!�

Then, seeing you condemned to death, they make merry, clap their hands, whistle and shout. Meanwhile, O Jesus, you make reparation for those who, finding themselves in high positions, for vain fear and to avoid losing their positions, break the most sacred laws, not caring about the ruin of entire peoples, favoring the wrongdoer and condemning the innocent. You also make reparation for those who, after sinning, instigate the divine wrath to punish them.

But as you are making reparation for these things, your heart bleeds for the pain of seeing the people chosen by you struck by the curse of heaven, which they themselves with full will have wanted, sealing it with your blood which they have called down upon themselves. Yes, your heart is fainting! Let me sustain it in my hands by making your reparations and pains mine. Now your love drives you still higher, and you are already impatiently seeking the cross!

My Life, I will follow You, but for now rest in my arms; then, we will reach Mount Calvary together. Therefore, remain in me, and bless me.

Reflections and Practices.

Crowning Him with thorns, they treat Jesus like a buffoon king, hurling insults and inflicting untold pains upon Him. He makes reparation especially for sins of pride. Do I allow feelings of pride to seep into me? Do I take credit for the good that I do? Do I believe that I am better than others? Is my mind always empty of other thoughts, so that grace may form in me? Often we do not allow grace to form because our mind is chock�full of other thoughts, and when our mind is not wholly filled with God, we are ourselves the cause of the devil�s harassment, as if indeed we encouraged his temptations. But a mind filled with God he leaves befuddled, because holy thoughts form a strong bulwark against the devil. When he makes his approach, it�s as if many swords wounded him, and so the devil is afraid of drawing near, wanting to avoid sharp pains.

I am wrong, therefore, to complain when my mind is troubled and tempted by the enemy, for it is my weak guard (because I am not occupied with Jesus) that drives the enemy to attack me, as if he spied on my mind to find small empty spaces where he could attack me. And yet, instead of succoring Jesus with holy thoughts and almost wanting to break his thorns, I, ungrateful that I am, drive them even further into his head and make him feel their sharp stings even more, so that grace is frustrated because it cannot accomplish in my mind the work of holy inspiration. Sometimes, I do even worse: when I feel the weight of temptations, instead of bringing them to Jesus, making a bundle out of them and burning them at the feet of his love, I grow worried, I become sad, and even calculate my temptations.

Therefore, not only is my poor mind filled with bad thoughts, but all my wretched being is as it were, soaked in them, and I almost need a miracle from Jesus to extricate myself. And Jesus, looking through those thorns, glances at me and, calling to me, says: Ah, my daughter, you yourself refuse to stay close to Me. Had you come to Me right away, I would have helped you free yourself from the troubles that the enemy brought into your mind. Instead, you left Me pining for your return; and since I wanted your help to free Me from these sharp thorns, in vain did I wait, while you were busy in the work that your enemy had prepared for you.

O you would have been tempted much less had you come right away into my arms, so that fearing Me, not you, the enemy would have left immediately! My Jesus, may your thorns be like a seal to my thoughts, which, sealing them in your mind, prevent anything to enter unless it breaks up your thorns. When Jesus makes Himself felt in my mind and my heart, do I answer his inspiration, or do I let it fall into oblivion? Jesus is treated like a buffoon king: do I respect all that is holy? Do I use all the reverence that is appropriate, as if I were touching Jesus Christ Himself?

My crowned Jesus, may I feel your thorns so that from your wounds I may understand how much You suffer, and may You become king of all of me. Displayed on the terrace, Jesus is sentenced to death by the people that He most loved and assisted.

To give me my life, my loving Jesus accepted death on my behalf; am I ready to accept any pain to keep pain and insults away from my Jesus? For Jesus not to suffer, we must accept our sentence; and because Jesus in his Humanity suffered sufficiently, we ought to continue his life on earth, and compensate with our suffering for the Humanity of Jesus Christ.

What compassion do I have for the affliction Jesus suffered on seeing so many souls torn from his Heart? Do I make his pains my own to refresh Him in all that He suffers? The Jews want Jesus crucified so that He will die disgracefully and so as to erase his Name from the face of the earth. Do I strive to make Jesus live on earth? With my acts, with my example, with my steps, I ought to leave a divine impression on the world to make Jesus recognized by everyone. With my works, I ought to produce a divine echo of his life from one end of the earth to the other. Am I ready to give up my life so that beloved Jesus may be refreshed from all the offenses He receives? Or do I imitate the Jews�the people so favored by God who almost resemble my poor soul so loved by God�who cried out, �Let Him be crucified!�?

My condemned Jesus, may your condemnation, which I accept for love of You, be mine. I do through my soul what I cannot do through nature: I continually pour myself into You, to carry You into the hearts of all creatures, to make You known to everyone, and to give your Life to all.

Prayer of Thanksgiving after Each Hour

Christ's Passion Hour from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m.

The 24 Hours of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Christ's Passion Hour from 7 a.m. to 8 a.m.

Preparation Prayer Before Each Hour

Christ's Passion Hour from 9 a.m. to 10 a.m.

From 8 a.m. to 9 a.m.
Jesus is brought before Pilate again. Barabbas is preferred to Jesus. Jesus is scourged.

My tormented Jesus, among anxieties and pains my poor heart follows you. Seeing you clothed as a madman, knowing who you are�infinite Wisdom, who gives judgment to all�I go into a frenzy, and say: What! Jesus is mad? Jesus is a criminal? And now the greatest criminal, Barabbas, will be preferred to you. My Jesus, holiness that has no equal, now you are before Pilate again.

Seeing you so pitifully reduced and clothed as if insane, and that Herod didn't condemn you either, he is more angered with the Jews, more firmly convinced of your innocence, and decided not to condemn you. But at the same time, wanting to give some satisfaction to the Jews, and, as it were, extinguish the hate, the fury, the rage and the burning thirst which they have for your blood, he presents you together with Barabbas. But the Jews cry: �We want Barabbas freed, not Jesus!�

So, Pilate, not knowing what to do to calm them down, condemns you to the scouring. My rejected Jesus, my heart breaks to see that while the Jews are all busy about putting you to death, absorbed in yourself, you are intent on giving life to everyone. Straining my ears, I can hear you say:

�Holy Father, look at your Son clothed as a madman. This makes reparation to you for the madness of so many creatures fallen into sin. Let this white garment be before you as forgiveness for so many souls that clothe themselves in the gloomy garment of sin. O Father, see the hatred, the fury, the rage they have against me, and their thirst for my blood, which makes them almost lose the light of reason. I want to make reparation to you for all hatred, vengeance, anger and homicides, and obtain the light of reason for everyone.�

�My Father, look at me again. Could there be a greater insult than to prefer the worst criminal to me? I want to make reparation to you for all the preferences committed. Yes, the whole world is full of preferences. Some people prefer a miserable self�interest to us; others honors, vanities, pleasures, attachments, dignities, immoderate eating and drinking, and even sin itself. All creatures unanimously reject us, even putting us after every foolish little thing. I am ready to accept Barabbas' being preferred to me, to make reparation for the preferences of creatures.�

My Jesus, seeing your great love in the midst of so many sufferings, and the heroism of your virtues in the midst of so many pains and insults, I feel myself die of pain and confusion. Your words and reparations, like so many wounds, echo in my poor heart; and in my grief I repeat your prayers and your reparations. I cannot separate from you even for an instant, otherwise many things that you do would escape me.

Now, what do I see? The soldiers are leading you to a column to scourge you. My love, I follow you. I ask you to look at me with your look of love, and to give me the strength to assist at your painful butchery. My most pure Jesus, now you are by the column. The furious soldiers loose you to tie you to it. But this is not enough. They strip you of your garments so they can cruelly butcher your most holy body. My love, my life, I feel myself faint for the pain of seeing you nude. You are trembling from head to foot, and your most holy face reddens with a virginal blush. You are so confused and exhausted, that, unable to stand on your feet, you are about to fall at the foot of this column, but the soldiers don't let you. They hold you up, not to help you, but to be able to tie you.

Now they take the ropes and tie your arms so tightly that they swell up right away, and blood spurts from the tips of your fingers. Then, from the iron ring on the column they pass the ropes and chains around your most holy person to your feet. And in order to freely unleash themselves on you they tie you to the column so tightly that you can't make a move. My stripped Jesus, let me pour out my feelings, otherwise I won't be able to continue to see you suffer so. How is it that you who dress all created things�the sun with light, the sky with stars, the plants with leaves, the birds with feathers�are stripped? What boldness! With the light that comes forth from his eyes, my loving Jesus says to me:

�Be silent, my child. It was necessary for me to be stripped, to make reparation for so many who strip themselves of every modesty, purity and innocence; who strip themselves of every good and virtue, of my grace, and dress themselves with every bestiality, living after the manner of beasts. With my virginal blush, I want to make reparation for all the indecencies, loose lifestyles and bestial pleasures. So, be attentive to what I am doing, pray and make reparation together with me, and calm down.�

Scourged Jesus, your love goes from excess to excess. I see that the torturers take up the whips and beat you so mercilessly that all your most holy body turns black and blue. They have beaten you so furiously that they are already tired, but two others take their place. These take up thorny rods and beat you so much that the blood immediately begins to flow in streams from your most sacred body. Then they pound it all over, forming furrows, and turning it into one big wound.

But this is still not enough. Two others take their place and with chains of hooked iron continue the painful butchery. At the first blows, that beaten and wounded flesh is shredded even more and falls to the ground, leaving the bones bare. The blood is streaming so profusely that it forms a pool around the column. My Jesus, my naked love, while you are under this storm of blows, I embrace your feet so that I may share in your pains and be entirely covered with your most precious blood. O Jesus, scourge my mind and drive out every thought that could distance me from You. Scourge my eyes, and if they want to look at earthly things, strike them with your scourges and make them look only at You. O Jesus, the sound of your whips reaches my ears! When You see me listening to things that distract me from You, my Jesus, strike me with your whips and entice me to listen only to your voice.

O Jesus, scourge my face�and if some act of complacency or self�importance should make an impression upon me, let the blows of your whips detach me from the earth and spur me to look only at Heaven. O Jesus, scourge my tongue and my lips�and if they should dare to pronounce a word that is not for your love and glory, may your scourges strike me and cast fire and flames upon me to ignite with love not only me, but all those who listen to me as well. O Jesus, scourge my hands. May every movement I make and every work that I do be signed with the seal of your love. O Jesus, may your whips strike my feet. I beg You to bind them tightly to your feet to keep me from taking a single step that is not for You�and so that I might lead others to love You. O Jesus, scourge my heart with your dispositions, affections, and desires so that every blow I receive leaves a wound in my heart.

And may these blows give birth to a living love in me. My Jesus, as I stretch my ears, I hear your moans, unheard by the others, because the storm of blows deafens the air around You. In those moans you say:

�All you who love me, come to learn the heroism of true love. Come to extinguish in my blood the thirst of your passions, the thirst of so many ambitions, of so many vanities and pleasures, of so many sensualities! In this blood of mine you will find the remedy for all your evils.�

Your moans continue to say:

�Look at me, O Father, all wounded under this storm of the lashes. But this is not everything. I want to form so many wounds in my body to make enough dwellings for all souls in the heaven of my humanity so as to form their salvation in myself, and then make them pass into the heaven of my divinity. My Father, let every lash of these scourgings make reparation before you, one by one, for every kind of sin. And as they strike me, let them excuse those who commit them. Let these lashes strike the hearts of creatures, speaking to them of my love, and so compel them to surrender to me.�

As you say this, your love is so intense that you almost encourage the torturers to beat you more. My torn and lacerated Jesus, your love overwhelms me and makes me feel like I am going crazy. Although your love is not tired, the executioners don't have the strength to continue the painful butchery. Now they cut the ropes; and almost dead, you fall in your own blood. Seeing the shreds of your flesh, you feel yourself die for the pain of seeing the condemned souls torn from you in those bits of flesh. The pain is so intense that you are gasping in your own blood, and seeing your flesh being lacerated you feels like dying of sorrow and in those pieces of flesh you see the souls who tear themselves away from your humanity. This suffering is so deep that you seem to drown in your own blood.

My Jesus, let me take you in my arms to restore you some with my love. I kiss you, and with my kiss I enclose all souls in you so that no others will be lost. Meanwhile, you bless me.

Reflections and Practices.

At this time, Jesus is stripped naked and subjected to cruel beating. But am I stripped of everything? Jesus is bound to a column. Do I allow myself to be bound by Love? Jesus is bound to a column, while I, with my sins and attachments�sometimes even in matters that are indifferent or good in themselves�add my own ropes as though I were unsatisfied with the ropes the Jews used to bind Him. Meanwhile, with his merciful gaze, Jesus calls me to remove his bonds.

Do I not see in that gaze another reproach intended for me for having helped to bind Him? If I am to relieve afflicted Jesus, I must remove my own chains before removing the chains of others. These little chains are frequently seen in my small attachments to my own will, to my self�love that is often offended, to my small vanities that weave a subtle web, sorrowfully binding my beloved Jesus. Overwhelmed by Love for my soul, Jesus Himself sometimes wishes to remove my chains so that I will not make Him endure this sorrowful enchainment once more.

Ah, I complain because I do not want to be bound alone with Jesus, I want to keep something that is not His, and so I force Him mournfully to withdraw from me. As my tormented Jesus suffers, He offers reparation for all sins against modesty.

Am I pure in my thoughts, glances, words, and affections, so that I do not inflict more blows on that innocent Body? Am I always bound to Jesus, in such a way that I find myself ready to defend Him whenever others strike Him with their offenses?

My enchained Jesus, may your chains be mine�so that I always feel You in me and You always feel me in You.

Prayer of Thanksgiving after Each Hour

Christ's Passion Hour from 7 a.m. to 8 a.m.

The 24 Hours of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Christ's Passion Hour from 6 a.m. to 7 a.m.

Preparation Prayer Before Each Hour

Christ's Passion Hour from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m.

From 7 a.m. to 8 a.m.
Jesus is brought before Pilate, who then sends him to Herod.

My bound Jesus, together with the priests, your enemies present you to Pilate. In view of celebrating the Passover, they remain outside in the courtyard, giving the false impression of holiness and scrupulosity. And you, my love, seeing to the heart of their malice, make reparation for all the hypocrisies of those consecrated to you. I too make reparation together with you.

Now, while you are doing this for their good, they instead, begin to accuse you to Pilate, vomiting all the poison they have in themselves against you.

Showing himself unsatisfied with their accusations, in order to be able to condemn you on good grounds, Pilate calls you aside to examine you alone, and asks you:

�Are you the king of the Jews?�

And you, my true king, Jesus, respond:

�My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, thousands of legions of angels would defend me.�

Pilate is surprised; and moved by the gentleness and dignity of your words, he says to you:

�What? You are king?�

And you:

�I am as you say; and I have come into the world to teach the truth.�

Not wanting to know more, and convinced of your innocence, Pilate goes out on the terrace and says:

�I find no fault at all in this man.�

The Jews are enraged, and they accuse you of many other things, but you remain silent and do not defend yourself. You make reparation for the weaknesses of judges when they find themselves before the domineering, and for their injustices; and you pray for the innocent, the oppressed and the abandoned. Then Pilate, seeing the fury of your enemies, and wanting to rid himself of you, sends you to Herod.

Jesus before Herod

My divine king, I want to repeat your prayers and reparations, and go with you to Herod. I see that your infuriated enemies would like to devour you. While they are taking you, they heap insults, taunting and ridicule on you, and so they bring you before Herod. Swelling up with pride, Herod asks you many questions, but you don't answer. You don't even look at him. Then, irritated because he doesn't see his curiosity satisfied, and humiliated by your long silence, he declares publicly that you are crazy and out of your mind; and he orders you to be treated accordingly. To mock you, he has you dressed in a white garment; and he turns you over to the soldiers so that they will abuse you as much as they can.

My innocent Jesus, no one finds any fault in you. Only the Jews do, because their false religiosity does not merit that the light of the truth shine in their minds.

My Jesus, infinite Wisdom, how dearly it costs you to have been declared crazy. The soldiers, taking advantage of you, throw you to the ground, trample you, cover you with spit, ridicule you and beat you with sticks. Being struck like this, you feel yourself dying. The pains, the abuses and the humiliations are so numerous that the angels weep, and they cover their faces with their wings so they won't have to see them.

My peculiar Jesus, I too want to call you crazy�but crazy with love. Your loving madness is such, that, instead of taking offense, you pray and make reparation for the ambition of kings aspiring to kingdoms, who thus cause the ruin of peoples; for so many massacres that they cause; for all the blood they spill to satisfy their whims; for all the sins of curiosity; and for the sins committed in courts and in armies.

My Jesus, how moving it is to see you praying and making reparation in the midst of so many outrages. Your words echo in my heart, and I follow what you do. Now, let me come by your side to share in your pains, console you with my love, send your enemies away, take you in my arms to restore you, and kiss your forehead.

I kiss your Forehead, my Jesus, and I beg You to purify my thoughts for the sake of these sufferings. I kiss your beautiful eyes, shining with light. And this light surrounds me everywhere. It penetrates my thoughts, eyes, words, and heart in such a way as to make me swim in this light. I kiss your ears�sanctify mine. I kiss your Face�enchant me and all souls as well with your beauty to recover from all the insults and taunts that You receive in Herod�s palace. I kiss your mouth. Give me the grace never to say any words that could offend You. And I want to make up for all the ways that others offend You. I want to stretch out my arms to You and hold You close to my heart, praying that You impress your image in my mind, my heart, my steps, my works, and in all that I do.

I kiss your right hand. Grant efficacious graces for the conversion of all sinners and give me and everyone the good fruits of your most holy works. I kiss your left hand. Impress me with your virtues, especially Charity. I kiss your left foot�give me self-knowledge. I kiss your right foot�give me the grace to obey with promptness. Finally, I kiss your most pure Heart�consume me in the ardent flames of your Love.

My gentle love, I see that they won't leave you alone. Herod is sending you back to Pilate. If your coming was painful, your return will be more tragic because I see that the Jews are more enraged than before, and at any cost are determined to put you to death.

So, before you leave Herod's palace, I want to kiss you as a sign of my love for you in the midst of so many pains. Strengthen me with your kiss and your blessing, and I will follow you to Pilate.

Reflections and Practices.

Even as Jesus is presented to Pilate in the midst of many insults and much contempt, He remains ever gentle and has no contempt toward anyone, trying to make the light of truth shine in everyone. Do I feel the same toward everyone? If someone does not like me, do I try to overcome my natural opposition? When dealing with others, do I always strive to make Jesus known and to make the light of truth shine in them?

Jesus, my sweet life, place your words on my lips and Grant that I may always speak with your tongue.

Presented before Herod, Jesus remains silent. He is dressed as a madman and subjected to incredible torture. When I am slandered, mocked, insulted, and jeered at, do I realize that Our Lord wants to give us his divine likeness? In my sorrow, derision, and all that my poor heart experiences, do I consider that it is Jesus who initiates our sorrow with his touch, transforming us into Himself and producing his likeness in us? And when suffering revisits us, do I consider that Jesus, looking at me, is still not content with me and, holding me closely, seeks to make me completely like Himself? Following Jesus� example, can I say that I have mastered myself, that instead of responding when angry, I prefer to remain silent? Do I ever allow myself to be overcome by curiosity?

In every affliction I encounter, I should make the intention to offer it as a life for Jesus, to pray for and obtain souls. When we place souls in the Will of God, our sorrows make a circle, and within that circle we enclose both God and the souls, and join the souls to Jesus.

My Love and my all, may You alone take total possession of this heart of mine. Keep it in your hands so that in my encounters with others I reproduce within me your surpassing patience.

Prayer of Thanksgiving after Each Hour