This chapter makes me cry :'(

Jesus is Scourged

Pushed through the rioting crowd with great force and no care, Jesus almost wanted to fall over and die right then and there. The pain he had so far endured was nothing but a small fraction of the pain that was yet to come. Jesus could see ahead into the future, but when he did, his eyes watered, his brain hurt, and he could hardly pray to ask for strength. The scourging he would endure…the crowning of the thorns… Jesus couldn't think about it, for if he did, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to complete his mission. But he had to do this. He had to. His Father was counting on him and the sins of the entire world were, too. Jesus didn't wish for anyone of these Roman soldiers, rioters, and sinners to go to Hell. It had not been his and his Father's dream when they had first created the world and man in seven days. He and his Father wished for…peace and happiness and goodness and praise. They had wanted the entire world and everyone in it to be happy.

But Satan had tempted, Eve had fallen, and Adam along with her. With that simple turning away from God, the golden gates of Heaven were slammed shut with great force. No soul could get in the glorious gates to the paradise where he resided. If people died, the holy souls needed to stay in Limbo, at least until Jesus had been sent to the world thousands of years later and would save everyone. And open the gates. That way each and every soul had a chance at Heaven.

Jesus wanted to tell them that! He wanted to so badly! And he even had at times—in his parables, in his teachings, in his care and love. But the world was so blind. He hardly recognized it from the Garden of Eden he had so carefully and wonderfully made. In that Garden, there was every plant imaginable—the lily, cactus, forget-me-not, sundew. Every animal at peace with each other—the lions and the zebras, the gazelles and the tigers, the blue bird and the dragonfly. The sun always shined, and Adam and Eve practically breathed in the love of God.

Then they had sinned. The world became corrupted, evil, and was now turning against him. But Jesus wasn't angry with his son and daughter. He had given them free will. They could sin or not sin. He wasn't going to force them to follow him. They had made their choice, and God was forced to sentence them to a life of hardship outside of the glorious Garden, since only holiness could be in there, and Adam and Eve were no longer holy. But even if Eve hadn't eaten the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, someone else would have. Eve's son would have, and if not him, one hundred days later another person would have. No one was perfect, and no one could be sin-free.

Jesus knew that, which is why he was being pushed rudely through a crowd, battered and bruised in a way no King of kings should ever be.

Led to the north side of Pilate's palace, Jesus bore the pain of being beaten by the Roman's sticks with silence. Occasionally the hurt of it all caused his mouth to open and his cries of distress to be heard, but mostly he remained mute, as foretold by the Scriptures.

Awaiting for him stood six other executioners. They were large men, burly and confident in themselves and everything they did. Jesus knew each one of their names. They were written in the palm of his hand. Yet the only thing in the palm of each one of their hands was a whip of some sort. Laughing and making jokes, the shisha seemed half-drunk. They all wore armor over their chest, and sandals. Jesus used to wear sandals like that. When he did his carpentry work. Or his ministry work.

"Get a move on!" A soldier pushed Jesus, then whipped him with a wooden rod. Jesus neither welcomed the pain nor wished for it to leave him. He didn't call out, "Stop!" or even turn away, hoping to escape the blow. He simply endure it. For the world. For the Egyptians, the Dutch, the Japanese, the Mexicans, the Americans, the Irish, and every other race that had and would walk this earth. He did it for them.

The soldiers ripped off the robe gifted to Jesus by Herod. In doing so, Jesus fell prostrate over the ground. The forgotten wounds on his knees and elbows did not welcome the new pain easily. Jesus groaned, and tried to remain on the ground for as long as possible, but a soldier came and kicked him in the back, shoving him forward towards the scourging pillar. Taken as a cue, Jesus crawled towards the three foot high pillar with iron rings at the top. He glanced at his hands. As he slowly moved forwards, his palms, wounded, left red hand prints on the white ground. Jesus used to cure people with those hands. He would simply touch them and they would be not only physically cured, but spiritually cured, sins forgiven. Sometimes, there would be that one soul who had the greater faith…the one who believed in him even more, such as the centurion who pleaded for his servant to be cured. Jesus was going to come to the house, but the centurion had stopped him with an "Adonai Elohai, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but just say the word and my servant shall be healed." Jesus knew the centurion would say this, yet he couldn't mask the pleasant surprise that came over his face regardless. All of Israel Jesus had not found such faith, and he loved it. That was the reason he came to this world—to change the hearts of many and show them his love, his compassion, and his free gift for everyone. Some wanted that gift, while others did not. Either way, Jesus knew, throughout his entire childhood and into adulthood that he would have to die for every sin of every person in the world. He looked forward to it, yet he dreaded it.

Still on all fours, Jesus fumbled with his garments as he struggled to remove them up and over his head. His arms were sore, bloody, bruised, and swollen, so it was near impossible for him to remove his tunic and other garments. Yet he did, trembling, and removed every piece of article from his body. The crowd laughed at his exposed skin.

Before Jesus could regain himself to a stand, one more ruffian kicked Jesus from behind, and he fell forward, his face being shoved into the pillar he was to be tied to.

He groaned as the two of the six grabbed his bruised and swollen hands and thrust them in the iron rings. They laughed as Jesus kneeled before the wooden pillar, unable to stand, what with his so many injuries and hands in such an awkward position.

"Stand up, you fool! Stand up so you can get the whipping you deserve!"

At this, Jesus tried to stand. He really did, but his legs felt so weak from under him. Jesus had never experienced such pain and fatigue before, and it was literally unbearable.

He collapsed onto the hard ground, and one soldier, whom Jesus knew with the, could he say, most compassion, assisted him up. Jesus' legs wobbled from under him, and his hands shook like a leaf in the wind. He eyed the crowd forming around him, and his heart yearned to preach to them. He yearned to preach love and forgiveness, even as the Pharisees and rioters shouted hate and vengeance to him.

An executioner, the drunkest one, walked over to Jesus and waved something in front of his face. Jesus recognized it immediately as a scourging weapon. The handle was long, and what was tried from it were numerous, long, strips of leather, knots at the end. Jesus had constructed something like that similar when he had stormed through the temple area and knocked over all the money, set the animals free. Jesus had been so sad that day. That was his Father's House! Yet everyone there, selling and attending, were hypocrites, and he had told them so.

But he still loved them. No matter what any person did, any sin they committed, he loved them more than anything. Yes, even the Romans. Even the executioners that were about to scourge him.

Speaking of executioners, all six of them surrounded Jesus from the front, staring him in the face, waving their identical weapons around. They laughed, slapped each other on the back, and called out foul words to him.

Jesus looked down at his hands, but looked away when he saw how much they were shaking. Jesus was pretty sure they would shake right out of the iron clasps, and honestly, that is what he wanted. But he had to do this.

"Ready?" the main soldier in charged ask.

The shisha nodded eagerly, and they sauntered over beside and behind Jesus, weapons raised. Jesus closed his eyes, looked at his trembling hands, and then raised his head to the heavens. He whispered, ever so softly, "Ha Lev shelee mookan, Abba."

"Echad!"

Mary the Mother winced.

"Shnai'yim!"

She pulled her veil closer around her face.

"Shloshah!"

A tear slipped down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away. It wouldn't due to allow her son, who was enduring such pain, see her cry from simply watching him endure it. Yet she couldn't prevent another teardrop from sliding down her face and dripping through her veil. She could feel the warm liquid trail from her eye to her chin, and the warmth almost comforted her. She needed warmth and she needed comfort that instant—the instant as she watched her beloved Son and Lord be nearly killed by whippings.

John side hugged her, and she thanked him for it with a slight smile. Yet when Mary looked at his solemn face, she felt guilty for smiling, even if she was grateful for the love and care her Son's Apostle was showing to her.

Mary turned back to Jesus, new-found tears building up in her eyes and falling down her face without her able to stop them. Her son, writhed with pain, lay completely exposed on the ground, his body stretched out with only his hands raised higher, prisoned by iron clamps. The whipping weapons left marks on his back, on his legs. Red, painful marks that Mary knew, if Jesus were to be released that instant, would never heal. The moans escaping from his mouth, Mary noticed, seemed more like moans of prayer than moans of pain, and that caused her more sorrow.

Of course, Mary wasn't angry with the Romans, nor John, nor Mary of Magdala. She knew this had to happen. Jesus had never really told her in words, but more in thoughts and the way he prayed with her. The way he preached to others, his early years in life in the Temple and his three years of travel ministry. Sure, she was distraught. Nearly distressed beyond common sense. But this had to be.

The main executioner in charge called out twenty lashes, in which the twentieth one left a large, long, black and blue welt upon the back of her Son. The shisha, panting heavily, stood away from the so-called criminal, the whips still white-knuckle gripped in their hands. Blood dripped off the ends, landing near their feet—which were also covered in streaks of red liquid. Echad executioner took one step back, and Mary noticed how his sandal left a vermillion imprint on the white flooring. She nearly wept at the sight of that.

But her heart nearly tore in two when she saw her baby boy laying sprawled out on the ground, his hands higher up and his head hanging. She could hardly look at the stripes on his back, yet she couldn't look away.

It almost seemed as if the slaughterers were done with Jesus—done killing him. The one in charge simply stared at Jesus, a smirk on his face.

What happened next made the entire crowd gasp in shock. Jesus—naked, beaten, bloody, bruised, striped, and near-to-death—slowly rose to his feet. His groans and moans could be heard a mile away, yet he still pushed up on his feet—his hands still in the iron clasps—and slowly came to a stand. Blood from old and new wounds seeped out and down his face, back, side, and legs. He looked near ready to faint—eyes closed, face pale and swollen. Yet he was standing.

And Mary knew what that meant.

At the sight of him, the leader of all stood from behind his table and shouted, "Impossible!"

The crowd of rioters, Pharisees, and a handful of Christ-followers gasped and conversed among themselves as to what this meant. Mary looked at Caiphas, and their eyes met for a split second. Before he looked away, his mouth curled in an evil grin.

"Scourge him!" the Pharisee then shouted. "Scourge him! Whip him! He wants more!"

The crowd then began picking up the words and chanting them in sync.

"Lo!" Mary of Magdala shouted out. "Bavakasha."

Mary the Mother, however, did not say anything. She simply watched the scene unravel before her like a ball of sheep's wool yarn.

The executioners raised their hands in applause, encouraging the crowd to get louder, in which they did, Caiphas leading the revolution. When the sound became too loud, the Roman in charge called out, "Silence!" In an instant the entire square quieted down and watched as the Roman walked away from his table, towards Jesus. He eyed the wounded man, almost in disgust. But Jesus remained standing, trying to hide the shaking that escaped from his hands. At the sight of the man's fear, the Roman, Mary saw, seemed to come to a decision. He marched back towards his table, sat, and spoke to the shisha. They laughed, smiled, and cheered, then hurried over to the table which held the scourging weapons. Each of them picked up the same weapon—some sort of thorny stick, covered in knots and splinters. Mary's eyes flooded with tears at the sight of such a weapon, yet none fell. John wrapped his arms around her and Mary of Magdala, who was, on the contrary, weeping bitterly.

Raising the thorny sticks high up in the air, the shisha once again waited for the command of their leader. They danced around slightly, antsy to begin the horrid whipping. The leader nodded. One executioner smiled, raised his weapon, and brought it down upon the back of Jesus with great force.

Mary didn't watch.

Jesus wished unconsciousness. He wished to faint, to black out, to be unaware of the pain for only a few seconds. He wished all of this was over. He wanted the pain to be gone. But not even his physical pain was as aching as his emotional. He earned to reach his arms out to his children, embracing them in a hug and whispering in their ear, "You are mine. I love you." Yet he didn't. Instead, he spoke quietly into the hearts of each one of the Romans, Pharisees, and executioners and hoped for them to change their opinion of him. He already knew if they would or would not. And the ones who wouldn't turn to him caused his pain to be even more excruciating.

The sun beat down upon his back, almost boiling the blood and blisters. He could just barely hear the flies buzzing near his face. Despite the constant weapons waving around, the flies were drawn to the blood.

Time continued to pass by, but for Jesus it seemed like an eternity. Though he had been from the beginning of the world, and even before that, nothing seemed as long as the whipping. The scourging. The horrid pain he was forced to endure for the sins of the world. For every person named John, including his own beloved Apostle. For every girl named Claudia—the ones who had lived and who were yet to be made in his image. Yes, he was even thinking of his children who wouldn't be physically alive for thousands of years. As he told his son Jeremiah long ago, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations." He knew the thousands of Maria's, thousands of Noah's, thousands of Grace's that had and would walk this world—and he was doing this all for them. Not for him, not to so that he could get back to Heaven quicker and stop preaching on Earth. Not to prove some sort of point. He was doing this out of Love.

But very few saw that.

Exhausted and in pain unimaginable by any human being, Jesus now lay on the white ground, his hands tied up above his head, his feet protruded behind him. He could hardly think now. His wounds, he knew, were so… He just couldn't think about it.

Then, even though he knew this was to happen, yet he was still startled by the brute force of the executioners, they unclamped one of his hands and shoved him. He flopped over onto his severely wounded back with only a groan. Everyone laughed, including the Romans, executioners, and Pharisees. As well as the bystanders.

Both eyes nearly swollen, Jesus could hardly look around at his surroundings. He knew what was going on, knew who was laughing, who was weeping, and who was staring at him in disgust. Yet he wanted to really see them. No, not them. He wanted to see his mother. His beloved mother, Mary. Queen of the Heavens, Mother over the entire Earth—not just him. He needed to see her.

Turning his head sideways a bit, where he knew he'd find her, he forced his left eye open. The sight of her, in her black veil and with swollen, red eyes, truly did tear his heart into two pieces.

Mother…

At that moment, thorns dug threw his stomach, sticking right into his skin many inches. He yelped in pain, but didn't called out for them to seize. This happened over and over again—thorns entering his body at the most uncomfortable of places—his thighs, his stomach, his face, even. Sometimes, he felt so drowsy, so in pain, that he couldn't feel the hurt. The emotional, yes. The physical? Well, this time it seemed as though the Father was allowing his Son just a tad bit of mercy. Or maybe Jesus was truly going faint.

"…but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."

That was written by Isaiah, nearly 700 years before Jesus was born of Mary. Jesus loved Isaiah, for he wrote everything out of love for his Lord. The verse, one Jesus had helped write, comforted him slightly. He trusted in his Father, and how he would love to walk and not faint…yet he couldn't. Really, he could. He could stand up and walk about, his wounds disappearing in a trillionth of a second. Yet he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't because he loved them. He couldn't because he loved the world. Yes, he hated how they scourged and beat him, but it had to be because Jesus loved all those starting from Adam and Eve to the last person who would ever be born into the world—yes, he near that person's name, too. He loved them. He loved the murderers, the rapists, the thieves, as well as saints, nuns, priests and pastors. He loved the sinner, not the sin. And he was doing this for the sinners, because of the sins.

Three quarters of an hour must have passed as Jesus endured all the whippings. He endured the cords, thorns, and glass pieces that were thrust into his exposed body. His embarrassment was great, but he hardly was concerned about that—so great was his pain.

Then, out of nowhere, a man came rushing into the crowd, called out, "Cease! Stop this! Bevashaka! This innocent man shall not be scourged to death!" Jesus knew the man, yet he could hardly see out of his swollen eyes the physical appearance of his rescuer. He felt the iron claps around his wrists loosen, and Jesus immediately fell limp onto the ground, in a puddle of his own blood. His lips kissed the liquid. He was forced to move his head a few inches so that he would not taste the redness—a task that required great effort.

Seeing that the whipping had officially concluded, the crowd started to disperse, like the Shepard had been struck and the flock was scattered. Jesus knew it a miracle from his Father that the Romans had actually listened to the man, whom, Jesus knew, to be nothing more than a regular civilian.

Eyes opening slowly, Jesus laid there, in his blood, as he watched the feet of many walk away. The shisha remained, however, and beat him with sticks, yelling that he stand. Jesus did, but with the greatest difficulty. Oh, how his arms ached! How is body yearned to be still—yearned to feel numb. How he wished for the gentle touch of his mother, the company of his beloved Apostle John, and the love of his Heavenly Father. How he wished to no longer feel hate by the people whose names he had written inside his palm…

"Stand, you blasted man! Is it so hard now?"

"Oh, yeah," one executioner shouted, "it's a lot harder to stand up now! We gave it to you good, didn't we?"

"I don't think he can stand, men! He can't be the King of the Jews, then, can he?"

That last statement gave Jesus the final push he needed to come to an entire stand. He wobbled and nearly fell, but he was standing. One man threw his garment at him with great force, which again nearly made him stumble to the ground. Jesus closed his eyes and fumbled with the tunic, trying desperately to put it over his heads, but his hands, arms, eyes, head, everything was in such pain, he could barely comprehend the task of maintaining a stand.

Showing some mercy, if one could call it that, one male helped Jesus with his clothes—thrust it over his head, actually. The pains of the cloth touching his severely opened and bleeding wounds brought newly pronounced wounds Jesus didn't know he could feel.

Jesus was then led towards the guard-house, all the while being poked, prodded, and made a joke of as if he was an animal on display. For one second, all shisha of the men were occupied telling a very mean joke and Jesus was able to dab the blood falling into his eyes with the corner of his garment. The effort brought up more new pains than it did sweet relief.

So, the King of kings, Lord of lords, and Savior over all stood there. Pondering, praying, and simply trying to uphold a stand.