"Hail, the King of Jews!"
I watched, shaking, nauseous and wanting to scream as they twisted that crown onto his head, and hit him, mocking everything he had become: A king by his words, rather than by force. And there stood Pilate, his judge...the one who could have stopped this, but had been afraid to. Afraid to lose the postition that man had put him into, rather than God. I couldn't watch, but I couldn't bear to look away from the anguish. The soldiers draped the purple robe on his beaten and ruined shoulders. Another mockery to the man I loved, I followed, and would watch die this day upon the hills of Golgatha. I watched as they forced him to carry his own instrument of death, as they nailed him and hung him with the lable INRI. I felt for Mary's hand. She was ripping at her hair, tearing at her clothes...she was watching her only son die. And she knew it. He looked down at us, his eyes clouded with pain and tears.
"Mother," he said, his voice breaking, "Behold your son." His eyes shifted, and there stood one of the disciples. The tears in my eyes blurred his face. It might have been Peter. Peter had loved him as no other. "Behold your mother!" I knew he had given up. And I cried out, as a strong hand closed around my arm, taking me away from the field of pain. Away from the death.
When the sky turned dark, I knew what had happened. And after there were stories. For a day, I sat there, numb. Then, on the third day, I took up the spices, with Mary and Clopas' wife, and we made our way to his tomb. Despite what the soldiers had done or believed, he had jut been a man, inspired by God. And for that he had died. I took my basket and left my home to meet with them. No,. Jesus' death as a criminal would not be enough to stop me from making his burial one of a man of God.