I nearly wept while writing this, guys :'( It's so sad. I could feel Mary's pain. Both Mary's. He went through so much for me...and for YOU. And what have we done to deserve that suffering? We've sinned. Over and over again, we've sinned.

loreen...thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you have been touched by my story. And, at your request, I have done a Mary of Magdala POV. The first little bit of this section is of Mary the Mother's, but after that it's Mary of Magdala's. How'd I do?

Jesus is Crucified

Mary was beside herself with worry. She was exhausted from hardly any sleep and weak from eating nearly nothing. She and her husband, Joseph, hobbled along Jerusalem, looking around, calling out, and praying.

Was it God's will for this to happen? Or was it just some sort of accident and Mary's fault? Or Joseph's fault? Mary had stopped arguing over who hadn't been watching Jesus. It didn't matter. What mattered was finding him. It'd was the third day. Where could he be? Mary had thought….she had just figured he was with her relatives and friends. Talking with Mary's mother or playing with Mary's cousins. But after a day was over, Mary came to realize he wasn't among them.

Joseph and Mary had returned to Jerusalem that night, frantically calling out Jesus' name, but he never answered. He never came running up to them, saying, "Mother! Father! I'm here! I'm here!" He was twelve, Mary knew, and old enough to care for himself, but she was still her Son. And God's Son.

Wiping the tears away from her eyes for the thousandth time, Mary turned to Joseph. Instead of scanning the crowd for their son, he was watching the teachers in the temple courts. They were conversing with one another about something, yet Mary was out of ear shot to hear what it was.

Mary, puzzled, watched as Joseph released her and hurried over to the temple. Mary followed, only to stop in her tracks when she saw the sight before her.

Jesus. Her Son—her dear, dear, boy—was in the middle of the temple, a huge smile on his face. He was speaking to the teachers, who were listening to him with great interesting. One after another they asked him questions about God and the Messiah, and Jesus answered each one with confidence.

When he spotted his Mother, Mary, he came running over to her and hugged her. Too astounded to yell at him, Mary choked out, "Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you."

Instead of apologizing, Jesus cocked his head at them, furrowed his brow, and asked, "Why were you searching for me? Didn't you know I had to be in my Father's house, Mother? Mother?"

Mary stumbled as she hurried up Golgotha—Place of the Skull. Her knees scraped against the giant rocks violently, yet her garments cushioned her fall some. John helped her stand, yet she pushed him off and continued her quest of where her Baby Boy would be killed by crucifixion.

Breathing heavily, she darted over to a vacant spot of the mountain, free of soldiers. She barely noticed John and Mary of Magdala come stand near her—that is, until Mary grasped her hand and John wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

Mary the Mother only had a moment to prepare herself before she spotted her dear child…her dear, perfect, child. God in the flesh. She tried to picture that beautiful young man who had, only twenty-one short years ago, been speaking in the temple to numerous great teachers. He'd been so full of life and happy to speak of his Father's—God's—work. Mary hadn't been angry that day. Confused, yes. But angry? How could she be? He'd asked, so innocently, why she had been searching. And why had she? Mary should have known that God would take care of their Son.

And Mary sure hoped he would care for their Son now, for he looked as if he was dead—dead and walking. He wasn't carrying his cross anymore, and his assistant had reluctantly left Jesus' side, only to hide away in the crowd and watch. Jesus' skin was so pale…yet so red. And glossy from the sweat. There wasn't an inch on him that hadn't been bruised or butchered. Every whip mark from the scourging earlier that day—when the soldiers had used glass shards and sticks composed of thorns—was composed of peeling skin, blood, and tissue. His once clear, smooth, and tan skin now looked like a piece of butchered meat.

She caught herself before she sobbed.

Nothing could calm Mary of Magdala. She felt dead inside and out. She could hardly see out of her eyes due to her excessive crying and the puffy-eye side effect. She shook uncontrollably. Every minute a new tear trailed down her cheek. She didn't even bother to wipe it away.

She just couldn't believe it. She just couldn't believe this was happening. How long ago had Jesus cured her? Cured her of her horrid…ailment? Mary shivered once more. She just couldn't imagine what would have become of her if she had never found Jesus—or Jesus found her. She didn't even remember much about that day, nor the days before that. It had been her, Susanna, and Joanna. Susanna and Joanna also had had a few demons cast out of them, but Mary had had seven. A symbol of completeness, she knew. Sometimes she did remember her being possessed. It was only a couple years ago, but it seemed like yesterday. Mostly she wasn't even sane—at least, she had been told so. But sometimes…she could feel the demons inside of her. She could hear them whispering to her that she was worthless. Her life was not worth living. God was a devil. She needed to murder him. And sometimes—most times—she agreed with them. She did find her life pointless. She wanted to commit suicide almost every minute she was sane (if she could call it that). She injured herself. Cut herself with weapons, ate nothing, and threw up green bile. She hated herself, as the demons inside of her told her she should. If she looked in a mirror—which she rarely did—all she could see were dark, hollow eyes and a sunken face. Skin as pale as milk. Her appearance was nothing then compared to what it was years before when she lived in her castle. Her name, "Magdala" meant "castle," since she grew up in one about three miles from Capernaum. She was gorgeous then. Colorful dresses, dangle earrings, long, dark hair. But when she was possessed? A jezebel demon in the flesh.

As her neighbors told her after she was healed, she did crazy things. She cursed and hollered, ripping out her hair and contemplating suicide. Not contemplating, honestly planning to kill herself. And maybe not even suicide…maybe the demons were trying to murder her.

That one day Jesus came into her city, she was dragged by the demons into the town to see him. Passer-byers later told her how she had reacted when Jesus walked by her. She, apparently, hissed and growled at him, foam coming out of her mouth. She had shouted, "Son of David! King of the Demons! I beg you, don't kill me! Stay clear of me!"

Mary of Magdala didn't remember the demons coming out of her. She didn't remember Jesus looking at her with love and compassion while she cursed at him. She only remember herself being free. No demons, no suicidal thoughts, no hollow eyes, and no sunken skin. She felt…alive. She felt loved. Adored. She had never felt that way ever. Not when she lived in Magdala in her castle—not ever. Not by her now deceased family. By no one. She was totally alone in the world, and the seven demons had invaded her body and her soul and tortured her.

Yet one day changed all that. One man did. One God. Her God, Jesus Christ. By only saying a word…he had given her an entire new life, and she would be eternally grateful.

He had hugged her afterwords, as well as hugging Joanna and Susanna. He'd whispered, "I love you, bat sheli" into her ear. She would never forget that moment. The moment when he smiled down at her, love and adoration in his eyes. Never had the demons bothered her again. Never had she injured herself, thrown up, or contemplated suicide. She simply followed her Lord. She was with him his entire rest of his ministry—from that day to this day. She was with him. Listening to him, assisting him, praying to him, and simply loving him. Never could she express her gratitude towards him. Not that day, not now.

Especially not now, when her dear Lord, the one who had given her a life worth living, was being shoved on a tree to die. New profound tears came flowing down her cheeks and dripping on the ground. She released Mary the Mother's hand and covered her face in distress. She'd lost her veil long ago, so her dark brown hair flew behind her, whipping her in the face and becoming tangled.

Peeking through her fingers, Mary watched the scene unfold before her like some awful nightmare—and she'd endured enough of those to last a lifetime. Jesus was standing now. Barely standing. Some Roman soldiers hurried over to Jesus with great joy and ripped off his garments. He stood there on the mountain clothed in nothing but a simply linen and the scapular around his neck. He was naked from his feet to his thighs and from his stomach to his head. And he looked pitiful. Nothing like the smiling Lord she had first met years ago that had cured her. Nothing like the joyful Lord who had bounced the little children upon his knee and whispered them stories of Heaven and how God loved them. Nothing like the Lord who had cured the blind man and given hearing to the deaf man. That deaf man was so happy to finally hear the sweet voice of his God and Savior, he'd nearly hugged Jesus for an hour. But now Mary of Magdala feared any form of physical affection would harm Jesus more than give him a reason to keep going. Mary knew why he had to do this—for her. For John and Peter and everyone else in this world. She'd listened to Jesus enough to understand.

But that didn't make the pain in her heart any less worse.

Mary watched as Jesus crawled on the stones towards his deathbed. His back arched downward, his head hung low. Blood dripped off his nose as he slowly made his way to the cross. The scapular around his neck dangled in the air, swinging back and forth.

Apparently Jesus was not moving fast enough for the soldiers, for one of them kicked him from behind, sending him forward so that he banged his chin on a rock, causing a new wound over an old one. Groaning, Jesus continued his quest as he tried best he could to lay himself on the cross. He managed to turn himself over, and lay flat somewhat, but he couldn't do any more than that. Laughing, one soldier grabbed his legs and threw them to the side so that the heels crashed into the foot of the cross. He then yanked Jesus' left arm onto the certain part of the cross. The soldier then tied a rope around Jesus' arm and that portion of the cross, knotting it at the end. Jesus didn't resist, and Mary wept because of that. He was doing this willingly.

Then the moment arrived. Mary watched in utter horror as a giant nail, one longer than a man's hand and thicker than a man's thumb, was pressed against Jesus' hand. The soldier grasping the nail chuckled and said, "Prepare for pain, King of the Worms." Then, hammer in hand, he raised it above his head. Mary watched in complete distress as she saw Jesus turn his head and look towards the nail placed upon his palm. He then glanced up towards the sneering soldier, whispered words, and braced himself for the pain to come.

An evil smile on his face, the soldier brought the hammer down and hit the nail straight on. Jesus cried out as blood immediately began gushing forth and spattered the soldier doing the work. Laughing, the Roman continued to hammer the nail through the precious palm of Mary's Lord and Savior. She watched as he gritted his teeth against the pain, blood sliding down his mouth as he no doubt bit his tongue to resist screaming.

"Lo, lo, lo," was all Mary could say as she sunk to the ground, her knees hitting the rocks unevenly and unbalancing her. She managed to remain on her knees as she watched in silence. Jesus' fingers curled in pain around the nail, blood still sputtering the surrounding area.

Two out of nine of the Roman soldiers were already moving onto Jesus' left hand. They fastened another rope to his arm and prepared to nail, yet realized his palm didn't reach the assigned hole. They then tied another rope around Jesus' wrist and stood back. One soldier grabbed the rope out of the hands of another, claiming he wished to do it. Snarling, he pushed his feet up against the cross and yanked Jesus' arm. The soldier's face curled in determination as he continued to pull on the arm so that it hovered over the open hole. Mary watched Jesus breathe heavily, his chest heaving. His legs contracted together and his other palm no doubt was being slightly ripped away from the hammered nail.

A sickening sound was made as Jesus' shoulder was dislocated. Mary caught herself before she irrupted in another round of sobbing.

"Nail it!" the soldier cried. "Nail it now!" Hurriedly, one man pressed the metal into Jesus' dear hand. The hand he had never hurt anyone with. The hand he had cured the blind, deaf, and mute with. The hand he had caressed Mary's cheek with when she had been free of her demons.

Raising the hammer high, the soldier brought it down in one swift movement. Blood spattered the one Roman in the face, and he stopped mid-swing in order to laugh and wipe it away. He then continued to bring the instrument down—one, two, three…six times. Jesus banged his head up against the cross to cease from screaming. His teeth, red with blood, remained clenched even after the final swing was made.

Then came his feet. His blessed feet Mary had anointed with oil, cried on, and dried them with her hair. The feet he had walked many miles on to preach news of God's grace and salvation.

A board had already been nailed to that certain portion of the cross, so Jesus would be forced to "stand" on this wood with nails in his feet. Mary knew why they put that wood there—to prolong the criminal's agony. Her Lord's agony. If that platform wasn't there, Jesus would die much more quickly due to either his feet bones breaking, him suffocating, or the nails being ripped out of his feet when the cross was lifted to a vertical. Jesus would be forced to remain alive for much longer…

Anguished, Mary watched as Jesus' feet were placed on top of each other—left above the right. Hammer in hand, a soldier fiercely grabbed a nail and placed it over his feet. Mary closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight. Tears fell down her cheeks as she waited for the sound of hammer striking nail.

It came, and she began sobbing. She didn't open her eyes until she heard these certain words coming from her Lord:

"Abba! Abba!"

Glancing up through her fingers, Mary saw the soldiers continuing to hammer the nail through the bones. Jesus was in indescribable pain as he forced the words out of his mouth.

"Abba! Abba, forgive your children. They don't know what they are doing…"

Instead of praying for himself, or asking his Father to lessen his great pain, he prayed for the souls of others. He prayed that even though were condemning him to death, they would not be condemned to Hell.

After Jesus was nailed, a servant of Pilate's came running over to one soldier and handed him a piece of metal. The soldier looked at the metal piece in disgust, then nailed it above Jesus head, the vibration from the nail causing Jesus much more pain.

Unable to watch yet unable to take her eyes off the scene, Mary of Magdala watched as ropes were looped through circular chains near Jesus' bloodied hands. Some soldiers grasped the ropes while some others stood behind the cross, heaving it upward. The ropes tightened as the soldiers slowly stepped backwards, trying desperately to lift the cross higher.

Bit by bit, Jesus was raised. The cross shook back and forth, as did the Lord nailed to it. The soldiers shouted to one another:

"Put your back into it!"

"Higher! Higher!"

"Lift it up, you idiots!"

Jesus mouth opened in pain, yet he didn't cry out. As Jesus rose, Mary rose. She slowly came to a stand as the cross reached the sky. When it was completely vertical, it slid into the awaiting hole with great force, sending Jesus' body ricocheting forward.

Jesus was crucified.

Before she began sobbing, Mary surveyed her dear Lord one final time. She watched as he struggled to breathe. She watched as his fingers curled in pain. She watched as he tried not to bang his head against the cross—due to the crown of thorns—but tried not to hang his head due to the neck pain. She watched as his toes dripped blood onto the ground. Every part of him was bleeding and butchered.

Then, above Jesus' sacred head, was the metal sign. Written in three languages, it read:

"This is the King of the Jews."

While the Romans mocked that title, Mary wept because of that and because he wasn't King of the Jews. He was her King. King overall. King of Heaven and Earth.

And he was nailed to a tree, dying.