It's dark out, but it's still only the middle of the afternoon. I'm here because they say that the one called Rabbi is to be crucified. Apparently he was handed over to the Jews, to be at their mercy. I saw him once. He is a humble man – a carpenter's son they say. Like I said, I saw him once. It was in Jerusalem sometime a few months back. There were a crowd of people there, and of course I was drawn in also. Then I saw him, he was sitting there amidst the people, teaching, loving, caring, and my heart broke. How could anyone so peaceful and – and… holy be anything but good? Still, these Jews insist he is a blasphemer. I want to see him again; I need to see him again. Something tells me that if I look upon his face once more then perhaps I can feel that stirring of peace again.
I hear the riot as I approach. The shouts and insults are getting louder and I hear a whip cracking in the distance. Roman guards shout for the people to stay back, but it's almost to no avail. Women are weeping. I see their faces - ashen and wet. Men stand glumly beside them, looking frantically in disbelief. But that is only some. Most are… angry, furious, excited – anxious for the cruelty to come. While scanning the crowd and trying to decipher those who love Him from those who don't, I see the whip. It has nine tails. On each tail is broken glass, nails, and thorns. They say that a strong man can crumble beneath 40 harsh cracks of that whip. They give him 39.
39 licks of that whip touch His once flawless back. Now it's torn, bloodied – scarred. I look at His marred back and want to cry. There is blood everywhere, so much blood. It's almost impossible to tell where the wounds begin and the blood ends. A guard pushes one of the women away. Something is shouted in Latin, but my ears have ceased to listen. All I see is Him. He no longer looks peaceful. My stomach gives a lurch as He looks up into the crowd. His eyes are broken between pain and love. How He can look these people in the eyes amazes me, yet He continues to do so. Then, oh God, he looks at me. I think He can see into my soul, into my heart even, because a small smile plays on His lips. It's as if He understands the breaking of my heart at that moment. As soon as He looks, though, he looks away.
Now they tell him to carry the cross. The very people who have put Him on the brink of death are yelling at Him to pick up the heavy wooden beam. I see Him biting back the pain, stifling His cries of agony, and my heart breaks further. Nevertheless, He picks it up. Some supernatural power must be with Him right now, for I would be dead on my face by this point in time. I have to turn away, for if I don't my heart will burst. He's struggling, and His pace is slowed, and yet He prevails. There's only so much I can take, so I look away and make my way ahead of the riot.
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Some time later I see the crowd approaching. Many still hurl insults – amongst other things, and there is still an entourage of weeping women, girls and men. From a distance I see that a different man, an untouched man, is carrying the cross. I feel a stab of unwanted jealousy and wish it were I carrying it for Him, wish it were I relieving His pain for the present. As the crowd approaches and I see His broken form, I remember back to when our eyes met. It was a moment of emotion, of understanding, of… forgiveness. But then my reverie is broken, because the riot has approached, and the time has almost come.
I stand on the sidelines and watch. It causes me to cringe with each blow of the hammer, but I can't look away. Pound – steel touches flesh – pound – more blood comes spewing forth – pound – a cry of agony – pound – weeping women. Those who were cheering on earlier have on slightly calmed their excited nerves. I hear someone saying in Hebrew, "Where is God to save you now 'Messiah'?" and I want to hurt that person. I want to shout back, "Stop! Stop! Leave Him be!" amongst other things, but my voice is lost. By now, they've finished His hands. Chest heaving in pain, and breaths coming in laboured gasps, He is dying. I look at him and a torrent of emotions comes crashing down, and the tears flow. He was a good man, a great man even, and that is something coming from a Roman like myself.
They are finished now, the centurions that have pounded shamelessly into His flesh, and they are rising up the cross. Anyone could merely glimpse at His face and see the pain etched there. A crown of thorns has been placed in mockery on His brow. The thorns are deep and cut into his scalp sending blood in eerie trails down his face. I want to stop this! I want to bring Him down off that cross and tend his wounds. It would mean death anyway; nothing can save Him now, but to die in such a shameful way… I look up, at him, at the cross, and once again weep. A sign hangs above his torn brow. The words are written crudely, but I can read them. "Jesus of Nazareth - the king of the Jews." Such a mockery, such shamefulness, yet why do I care so much?
The clouds make a loud contrast with his quickly paling skin. They are dark and rolling and almost seem, well, angry. The entourage of weepers is now at the feet of the cross. Many are bowed down in reverence, many are shouting openly at the sky, others are sitting numbly – looking sickened. A part of me wants to join them, but it's obvious they're all friends, or family even. Instead, I stand near enough to hear his cries yet far enough to not attract attention. The constricted feeling in my chest isn't going anywhere soon, yet I continue to look on.
For what seems like hours I just stand there. The sky has turned even darker if possible, and the rioters are finally all but silent. Most just look on in awe or in triumph. Again I feel the odd urge to hit someone – preferably one of those smug Jews. My attention on them, however, is drawn away. I can hear Him gasping desperately. His murmurs are low, and I wonder what he is saying. Then, lightening flashes, and thunder crashes loudly in the sky. He shouts out, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" and my heart wrenches. "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" That cry turns my insides out and I retch at the sight of Him. He is as pale as death, and his breath almost ceases to come. And the blood, oh God the blood, it's everywhere, it covers Him like a second skin. Then, then He mumbles something that I can't hear over the din of the clouds, and His head falls limp. A great mourning arises, and those near the foot of the cross begin to weep. Almost as if their tears caused some leak to spring loose, the rain begins to fall.
I know it's only been a few moments, but to me it seemed like lifetimes. The centurions that were standing nearby come rushing forward to see what the commotion is about. I see one stay back hesitantly, but the others are crowding near the cross too. I am still retching at random intervals, but I can see them yelling and looking almost frightened. Then one takes his spear, and oh God, he's shoving it through Jesus' side. Oh God, oh God! More blood, but it doesn't matter because He's already dead. I can't look anymore; I have to get away, so I run.
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It's been almost two weeks since I watched Him die, and yet I can't get the whole scene out of my mind. Coming to me over and over in my dreams is his face. The look of death that clouded his brow, the look of sadness - Yet, even as I remember the pain and the wounds, I never once remember seeing a hint of remorse or ill content cloud his face. No, he seemed almost… happy, or something along those lines. And then there are words that I don't remember hearing, but He says, "Forgive them father for they know not what they're doing…" Why would he want to forgive those that tormented Him? Why would he care? Some say it's because He is or was the Messiah, others say He was a lunatic. All I know is that He is peace, and for now that's enough.