I know you are fully God, and I know you trust in your Father, but as fully man, you must feel some trepidation as you consider the great burden of the sins your shoulders are to bear; shoulders that seem to curl like a sheet of paper, hardly able to carry yourself let alone the weight of the world.
And what do your thoughts turn to at this time? I imagine you consider your friends who have abandoned you. I suspect these thoughts are not ones of condemnation, but rather of love and concern.
Do you consider the instruments your persecutors use? Tools used to tear holes in your body; tools that exist only because you granted these men the power to create them. And mouths; mouths that bark insults at the God-man who came to save even those who spit on him and slap his once beautiful face.
I look at you Lord, sitting there alone, a crown of thick thorns piercing into your forehead. It is only your left arm that grants you comfort now. And I consider sufferings that I tend to overlook: Scraped knees from falling; the hundreds of cuts on your feet making each step closer to Calvary nearly unbearable; the uncomfort as drops of blood and sweat roll into your eyes blinding you; the sting of sweat as it mingles with the open wounds on your body from the flagellation. And your shoulders? Bruised and raw from dragging the wood on which you will be put to death.
How could they have done this to you?
How could I have done this to you.