The sun falls into the mountaintops as it would any other year, though it seems to take an eternity to set, lingering just before it left a nation in impenetrable darkness. The wind blew gently, too gently, caressing all life but refusing to take it with vigor of the winter. The last dregs of ostensible activity died away as the villagers settled to eat Passover dinner and slumber as they had always done – yet the real action of the time hadn't yet begun.
A cloaked man scurries through alleyways, face hidden as if he were ashamed to be walking about. His dark eyes, barely visible, burned with something that was merely an indifferent determination to do what he thought to be an obligation. Any man watching would have questioned why he was running to the house of Caiaphas at such an hour as if he were acting against nature itself. The Pharisee welcomed him with too much enthusiasm.
A garden occupied by a dozen common men, the ones who had stirred the souls of a nation to the point of starting a revolution. But that moment had come and gone in an instant. The servants lay sleeping as if they hadn't rested in decades, but the leader hardly noticed them – he was spread against the ground, shaking with anguish, digging his fingers into the rough earth beneath him, begging for mercy if it existed. Sweat dripped to the ground from him face, sprinkling the thin grass with crimson droplets. At last the servant king surrendered to his fate. His muscles relaxed a little, and he turned his attention to his followers. "How do you sleep at such a time?" he hissed. "You must prepare yourself for the ultimate battle, for we are weak."
A small gathering of guards in their armor come to take the place by siege. They pause when they see the group of men; which one is the hunted? The cloaked man steps forward, their guide and kisses the leader on the cheek with uncharacteristic affection. Blood stains his lips. The guards take the man, who seems to hand himself to them with eagerness – one of the servants stands with a blade, lashing at the guards, eyes filled with vengeance. All of the Romans release the leader, prepared to fight to the death – he could have escaped in that moment while his followers gave themselves to death – yet with a raised hand he stops them. "Put down your sword, my Cephas," he insists. "This is not the fight which you must fight. Let me go."
All men are puzzled – does this man die with such willingness? – but march to Caiaphas. The servant kind is whipped, slapped, kicked as they go, not for disobedience but for the amusement of the soldiers. Caiaphas waits for the small gathering, the elder Annas at his side. The followers disperse, lingering in the shadows as they ponder the future. Perhaps their leader would escape in some grand, flamboyant way before he took control of Rome – was that not what he had come to do? But he only stood as they mocked him and decided his fate, as silent as a deaf man. At last he spoke, though his words were just audible; the priests spit in his face and slapped him, filled with content. Caiaphas tore his uniform of fine linen, shouting without words as he did so. It was time for them to take a grander step to a final verdict.
The guards of the prefect's house made no move to stop the movement that approached them, though they regarded the Jews with curiosity and some disgust. A small throng had joined the priests and council out of interest alone, though they remembered the wonders and renewal the man had given him. The sick he had assisted stood in the crowd, helpless; the brokenhearted made no move against the man, though they did not weep. Others who had grown used to their traditions screamed for vindication, for his death. A smile emerged on the face of Caiaphas; Pilate was weak, and he had never been one to keep the peace. A large enough riot could create a vision of anarchy, and he would oblige almost instantly. Everything was aligned so well, as if God Himself had intended the events to be as they were.
The governor of the post stepped forward to meet his crowd. He looked as if he had been awake and waiting for them, as if he had expected danger to his position. Though still young, anxiety and Caesar's threats had wearied him and lined his face with signs of age. He spoke with the priests for a moment, only half-listening to their demands, expecting their captive to protest as the other criminals had - yet how silent he was, as if he were a mute man!
What a strange one to be called King of the Jews: he was the same as any man, muscular from his work, with skin and hair and eyes like those of the thousands that watched the scene so intently - nothing special to admire based upon appearance. His skin had been bruised and cut, and blood seemed to run down his face. Yet something in the average face and peasant's clothes did not limit this silent king, the one who had been admired by the people for his words and boldness.
Pilate faltered; how could he condemn an innocent man? He had no interest in the affairs of Jews; the citizens had become his enemies. If the crowd did not rebel, the man's followers would. One option lingered: a lapse of liability. Send him to Herod.
Mockery in exchange for silence. A march back to Pilate. A group of weary Pharisees with an incredible amount of influence. Rage grew as a disease within them , a poison with no antidote. All would happen as they wished... the king would be exterminated.
Yet another rejection for some strange perversion of justice. Jeers from a crowd that could crush all of Jerusalem with their madness, clamoring for death of either the prisoner or the governor. Another desperate attempt to divert their persistence - the innocent man or the murderer. Barabbas stumbles out of his shackles and sneers at the crowd with the soul of a mad man. They behold their choice as if he were a leprous ram, but turned their attention to the trial. The cry comes as a chorus of demands: Crucify!
The feel of rods and whips against delicate skin, a sign of human frailty in even the strongest men. Blood is poured; flesh is ripped away from the body. Laughter fills the place as the guards have their dismal delight in the man's pain. A twisted crown of pain is placed upon his head as he is brought again to the crowd to be a spectacle. Is this not enough?
Still their cries for death come to Pilate, demanding response from he or Caesar. What is truth in such a place, where goodness must be exchanged for comfort? Can the soldiers overcome the Jews? A moment of hesitation pleads with the prisoner for some defense - anything to save him! - but he refuses to rise against the wishes of the masses. There is a time for everything - a time to be born, a time to die. This is his time. Again come the shouts led by Caiaphas, wretched things that cannot be ignored. They envelope Pilate, smother him, murder him...
Nails remind the dying man of his days as a carpenter, the serenity of youth that beckoned him to learn all things, teach all things, know all things, restore all things. He restrains a curse as they puncture his hands, bringing forth a wave of pain that courses through his entire body. The thirst burns his throat; the nails burn his hands and feet. All of his body is a large injury, something that nearly overpower the laughs and sobs of spectators. He feels something too familiar, the thing that has governed his life and death. Compassion. He cries out for their forgiveness, knowing that their ignorance is not easily forgotten. The oneness he has felt for all of his life is torn from his body - the spirit of something greater than himself leaves him to die alone. There is no love, no sympathy, no glory, no assurance. He is no longer the loved son, but the abandoned criminal. Another cry that penetrates all, a cry of pain that is only human: My God, why have You forsaken me?
Moments pass. All is accomplished. Once again the dying one trusts his God, and in that moment he passes into the next life, feeling only contentment.
The earth shakes as the sky darkens - in that moment no light can be seen or felt. The air is thick with peril - the wind blows and warns of a coming tempest. A spear pierces dead skin, and blood rains around the mountain of the dead, covering a world of corruption. A veil is split. Caiaphas weeps, for to him it seems to be destruction.
Dawn. Discouragement plagues those who were closest to their dead leader. Was he not the one who was meant to govern them and bring a new order? They think that perhaps they may go back to their lives and occupations. No one thinks of Judas, for he too is dead. Something changes the air as they are told a miracle too large for even their minds to entertain. They think the mere idea absurd - who can raise himself from the dead?
A scream from some other world - how permanent defeat seems! - and all of the evils of the world are shaken where they lay. Yet no beast of God takes notice, for they grieve, questioning the justice of the world around them. Was their kind defeated?
An answer comes. The scars are touched. Mysteries are explained. There is reassurance. The king's return is only a matter of days - yet it changes the course of the world itself. At last he ascends with the rays of the sun, unseen but known more than ever. Glory has come.