As a child and adolescent, I was acutely aware that my peers had an impoverished understanding of the Lord's passion, and (not being yet in touch with my spiritual nature) focused on the physical torture highlighted in these mysteries. Thus I would feel remiss were I not to at least mention the incredible torment Our Lord suffered so meekly as His sacred Body was whipped and torn by bone, glass, rocks, and other sharp, painful edges.
I think often of the scene from The Passion in which Mary and the other woman take white cloths and sop up Christ's Precious Blood, spilt so thoughtlessly there for all men. Well, thoughtless for some, anyway.
I sometimes get angry at Protestant depictions of our Lord's passion, because they usually have Him scream out in pain at some point. But his continued silence is one of my favorite things about the great suffering He bore for us: look at all that He endured for our sake, and He didn't cry out once. How, then, do I complain about the smallest thorns in my side?
Acceptance of suffering, when it's not the type of suffering we'd choose for ourselves. What a hard task! I look to You, O Lord, for hope.