Hey, guys! The story is almost finished! Just a few more chapters...

I just wanted to share a little tid-bit of information with you guys. In the Bible, it says that after Jesus did the institution of the Eucharist, they sang a hymn and went to the Mount of Olives. Back then, people would say they screwed up the Passover! They are supposed to have had 4 different times where they drank wine 4 times. At the Last Supper, Jesus instituted 2 of the cups before the Eucharist, and the 3rd cup was when the wine was turned into his blood and he said, "Do this in remembrance of me." Then they would typically sing a hymn, and the 4th chalice would be instituted. But that never happened! NEVER this that mentioned in the Bible. Some would say Jesus messed up the Passover! But recall in the Agony of the Garden, Jesus says, "If it your will, let this CHALICE pass from me..." The 4th missing cup! This cup is called the "cup of consummation." Recall now, that when Jesus was on the cross dying, he said, "I thirst." Then, wine and vinegar was given to him. WINE WAS GIVEN TO HIM AS HE WAS DYING. The 4th cup! Shortly after that, Jesus said, "It is finished." Jesus had drunk the cup of consummation, the one he would not drink until his mission was accomplished, and now it was.

I find that SUPER interesting, and just wanted to share that with you guys.

Alatariele, I wanted to do your little suggestion story of Mary chasing Jesus after he called her "woman" and Mary remembering that at the foot of the cross, but I looked it up, and it just wouldn't have made sense for Mary to be angry at Jesus for calling her "woman" because back then, it was a sign of respect. Mary would be angry at Jesus for showing her respect? :P It was a great, idea, though! And I value you ideas! I would love some more, if you have any, but this one I just couldn't use, sadly...

Agony on the Cross

Caiphas stared up at that blaspheming criminal in disgust. There he was. Almost dead. Finally. Caiphas still couldn't believe it. Was that Jesus really hanging from a tree? He nearly laughed. All those years of preaching and proclaiming and blaspheming, and the Nazarene was finally going to die. Honestly, Caiphas figured something would have happened to prevent this crucifixion from happening. Maybe Pontius Pilate would change his mind, or Herod would insist on letting Jesus go. But none of that had happened.
Thankfully.
Caiphas almost wanted to smile, yet he didn't. Instead, he climb off his donkey and landed on the stony ground. He slowly began approaching the cross which Jesus hung from. He didn't dare get any closer than a few feet, less he become unclean by the blood of a criminal.
Scoffing, Caiphas shook his head and shouted loud enough for all to hear, "Aha! You said you would destroy the temple, and in three days"—Caiphas emphasized the word three—"build it back up. Yet you cannot come down from your cross..."
The Romans surrounding Jesus laughed and pointed, and Caiphas couldn't help but feel proud for his handiwork. He continued, "Save yourself! Come down from your cross!"
One of the Pharisees behind Caiphas shouted, "He saved others, yet he cannot save himself!"
Another said, "Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now. Then, we can see and believe."
Caiphas grinned, then turned away, staff in hand. He heard someone speaking behind him, and he honestly thought it was Jesus, but when he turned, Jesus was mute, as if he hadn't said anything. To his right, he caught sight of one out of many of the weeping women. Her eyes were puffy from tears, yet she didn't shout or curse at Caiphas, which she was wise to not do. Instead, she simply stared at him.
Caiphas turned away.

It was hardly fair that he cry. Really, it wasn't right for him to do so. Jesus—his best friend and Lord—was going through all of the pain, while John was just watching. Yet he needed to cry. He desperately needed to cry.
A tear slid down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away so Mary the Mother would not see him. It was her Son hanging on the cross, yet she wasn't crying anymore. Mary of Magdala was though. Prostrate on the ground, deeply wailing.
Jesus was hanging lower now. His legs were bent at an odd angle. His back was pressed up against the coarse wood. He struggled to breathe, and John knew why. Each and every breath Jesus had to take—just to stay alive two seconds longer—required him to push up on his nailed feet in order for his body to straighten, which allowed him to then take in a breath. Yet as soon as he sunk back down, he needed to stand on his nailed feet and inhale again.
John wondered why he didn't just die. Wasn't his assignment finished? Hadn't he endured enough? How could there still be more to be done? Why should Jesus just hang there and suffer bitter pain?
The criminal on the right of Jesus, the one who was obviously angry and harsh, began cursing and shouting. He cursed Jesus, the Pharisees, the Romans, and those watching and weeping. He shouted that he wished he could murder them all—and would have, too, if he wasn't hanging from the cross. He said how he hated life and wanted to die.
"Just kill me now!"
The other man, on the left of Jesus, began shouting back. "Have you no fear of God, for you are subject to the same condemnation?"
John was taken-aback by this statement.
He continued, "Gestas, we are deserving of this punishment. We have sinned. We have committed our crimes. We deserve this! But this man"—he turned his head ever so slightly to Jesus—"has done no wrong. Jesus, I ask only that you remember me when you enter your kingdom."
John watched in awe and sadness. He thought Jesus wouldn't answer the criminal, for he was far too weak. In order for him speak he would have to stand yet again on his nailed feet...pushing up on them with the little strength he had.
But Jesus did speak. He stood on his feet, his legs unbending slightly. Head tilted backwards, Jesus spoke.
"Amen...I say to you, this same day you...will be with me...in paradise."
That one criminal stared at Jesus without saying a single word. He nodded his head slightly, then closed his eyes as his breathing became labored.
The other criminal—Gestas, as John realized he was called—laughed out loud. He himself stood up on his feet and said, spitefully, "Avah marduwth, Dismas! You can burn in the fires of Hell like your Jesus will soon enough. Burn right along with Satan! I don't care! Everyone on Earth will burn!"
John winced at his harsh words and tried desperately to block them out by closing his eyes.
In a few seconds, he heard wailing and screaming, and when he opened them, he saw crows and other birds swarming at Gestas, landing on his arms and picking at his skin. Gestas screamed and cursed, yet he couldn't move do to his current situation. One Roman soldier grabbed a spear and tried to shoo the crows away, yet they didn't leave until they had eaten much of Gestas' left fingers.
John turned away, not able to look at the criminals or his Lord.

One hour had passed, Jesus knew, but it seemed far longer than that. It seemed like an eternity—and he knew what an eternity felt like. Every few seconds he struggled to breathe, and every few seconds he had to force himself to push on his nailed feet in order to survive that much longer. It wasn't time for him to die. He wasn't ready to die. He would welcome death, though. He would be in Heaven—with his Father and the souls who would finally be allowed out of Limbo. He would be able to open the golden Gates of Heaven.
But his time on Earth was not yet finished. He had not yet drunken the chalice set before him, and wouldn't be able to for another few hours. The sins of the world had not been paid in full yet.
Ken, the sins of the world. That's why he was doing this. Though the Pharisees beat him and the Romans whipped him and nailed him to this tree, they weren't the ones holding him to the cross. Though the ropes and nails seemed as though they were keeping him there—trapped—they really weren't. As Jesus told the Pharisees long ago, "No one takes my life away from me. I lay it down on my own accord." At that instant, Jesus could un-nail himself from the cross. Or he could die. He could just give up his life.
But he didn't.
The sins of the world were not paid for yet. He had every murder, every lie, every theft, every rape, and every sinful thought directly on his shoulders. He'd had those sins whipped into his back, on his face, on his legs, on his arms. He'd had those sinned pressed deeply into his skull. He'd had those sins thrown over his shoulders, disguised in a cloak of purple. He'd had those sins dug into his back with each step he took, and those sins also shoved his face into the ground as he fell. And just recently, he'd had those sins nailed in his hands and feet. Now, the sins sat on his shoulders. Every single sin of the entire world. The past world and the future world. Every single sin of every single person...
The weight was unbearable. Physically, it almost pulled his entire body down, ripping his hands out of the nails. Emotionally, he was drained. And exhausted. He tried not to think about those many, many sins, but he also tried to think about them. He thought of every sin individually, who had committed it, when, and the thoughts that were going through their mind. That man that had hit him in the face in the temple? Jesus knew his thoughts at that moment, and he knew of his thoughts now. The soldier who pressed the crown of thorns into his head? Jesus knew what had been running through his mind at that moment. And Caiphas? Ken, Jesus even knew about him. He had seen the demons dancing around Caiphas as he called out how ridiculous it was for Jesus to say he would destroy the temple, then rebuild it in three days. Satan had been one of those demons. Satan had glared and smiled at Jesus, all the while he patted Caiphas on the shoulder—him not knowing this. The other demons—all fallen angels—laughed and snarled, coaxing Caiphas to say more and cheering when he did so.
How Jesus loved Caiphas.
He loved the sinner, not the sins. It was the sins he was paying for, yet the sinners he was doing this for.
Like Caiphas, and John. And Mary of Magdala. And the Roman soldier who'd dislocated his shoulder. And Dismas and Gestas. And even hundreds of years in the future, he was doing this for that little Indian girl who will love to play in the woods. And that pioneer boy who will one day in the future marry the girl he adored. And farther in the future, he was doing this for that ginger-haired, green-eyed girl who will grow up to be a person of medicine.
Though he was doing this for everyone, Jesus knew that if somehow there was one soul that had not been saved, or wouldn't be given the chance of entering Heaven, he would do this all over again. Even if that one person had only committed one sin, keeping them out of Heaven, Jesus would go through all this pain. He would endure the whippings and crowning of thorns and crucifixion, just for that one sin. Jesus loved all of his children so much it nearly hurt him more than his physical wounds did.

This day was turning out to be an amusing one. First he had the privilege of nailing that idiot to the cross, and now he was winning his clothes! Saraph smiled as he cupped his hand around the four dice and tossed them on the table. They traveled across the platform towards his other opponents, landing the exact way Saraph wished them to. He cheered loudly as he calculated his new score. A few more dice rolls and he would win the Worm Kings' garment.
Glancing up towards that criminal, he grinned. Sure was a lot of pain that man was going through. Saraph wasn't even sure what he had done to deserve that. Blasphemy, maybe. Saraph couldn't even believe he was still alive. The murderers on his left and right appeared near death, and they hadn't even been scourged. They simply hung by their hands and feet on that piece of tree, pale as the moon.
The King, on the other hand, wasn't really pale. He was entirely red. Not a spot of white on him. His skin was butchered and torn to pieces. His fingers were curled in pain. Yet he was still alive?
Not for long, Saraph figured. If he didn't die soon, his legs would be broken, that way he couldn't breathe anymore. Saraph knew that holy day—Passover—was tomorrow, and Pilate would not allow criminals to hang on crosses during that time. Which was a shame, really, since Saraph would have enjoyed seeing how long the King of Jews would have lasted before his legs had to be broken. All night? Up until tomorrow? Maybe he could have gambled his winnings on that.
"Saraph!" his soldier opponent shouted.
He turned. "What?"
"It's your turn, idiot!"
"Oh, shut up! I'm going."
As Saraph prepared to roll the dice, a strong breeze ruffled his clothes, sending the ends of his garments flying on the table. Dust kicked up and landed in his eyes, and he quickly rubbed it away in time to see a hazy red fog roll in from behind the crucifixes. The fog crept around the bottoms of the crosses, covering the wood. Then it snaked around the people watching and weeping. More wind came, knocking the artificial table over and spilling the dice onto the rocky ground. Saraph cursed as he hurried to gather up his four dice. When he was looking for the last one, everything grew dark. He couldn't see the ground, the crosses, his men, or the bystanders. He saw nothing.
"Hey!" he shouted out, but his cry was lost in the midst of all the chaos. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear women screaming and the other soldiers yelling. Saraph glanced up towards the sky and saw a circle silhouette of light, where the sun should have been. But instead of the sun, it was total blackness.
Saraph fell to his knees, frightened, and turned to where he thought Jesus' cross was. Oddly enough, as soon as he started to look, he could see the man hanging on the cross. He saw the bloody limbs and the nailed hands and feet. He saw the face of that man, even amidst the blackness and blood.
Then he saw one woman and one man slowly make their way to the cross, as if they could see fine. The woman, weeping, cried out, "My Son! I beg you to take my life. Let me die with you."
Intrigued, Saraph shut out all of the other distractions surrounding him and focused on the event before him, which, oddly enough, was the only thing he could see.
The King allowed his head to fall to his chest and looked at the woman—apparently his mother—and said, "Woman…behold your Son." Averting his eyes ever so slightly to the man by the woman, he said, "Behold…your mother."
She became overcome with grief, while the man nodded and hugged her, then, ever so slowly, led her away. Saraph lost sight of them and was only focused on the man on the cross. The man who didn't curse or cry out as the other criminal did. The man who didn't even say he deserved this. He did deserve this, didn't he?
Saraph didn't know how long there was darkness. Maybe for only a few seconds, but maybe for much longer than that. But when lightness finally came back, Saraph felt unexplainably different. The red fog was gone, and all that remained was a chilly breeze and gray clouds in the sky.
Slightly shaken, Saraph didn't even notice the soldiers trying to grab his attention until one of them shoved him in the back, sending him to his knees. When he glanced up, he realized he was directly below the King. He could see each tear of blood trail down the foot of the cross onto the rocks below. Gingerly, Saraph cast his eyes farther up and stared into the eyes of the supposed criminal. Something hit him at that moment. Though the man's eyes were nearly swollen shut, it was as if he was looking directly into Saraph's soul. And seeing what?
Confused, Saraph couldn't take his eyes of the man. He seemed...innocent? Impossible...it was impossible, right? He was a Roman soldier! He shouldn't be thinking such thoughts…
"Saraph!" he heard from behind him. "Get up!"
Dazed and distracted, Saraph came to a stand and slowly walked away from the crucifix.
"Saraph!"
"What?" he finally managed to ask, his eyes turning towards the soldiers who'd repositioned the gaming table.
"Are you going to go or not? Last round."
Saraph couldn't believe they were acting this way. Hadn't they just seen what had happened? Or had that only been him? Regardless, Saraph sat himself down and continued his game, trying desperately not to avert his eyes towards the man who was deemed the "blaspheming criminal" by others. But Saraph couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he didn't deserve such a title.

Time was running out for Jesus, and he knew that. He knew he wouldn't last much longer on the cross, and it hurt him immensely to think that he wouldn't be able to be with his Mother anymore. But John would take care of her.
Palms almost numb from the excruciating pain, feet in an unbearable state of injury, Jesus struggled one more time to breathe. He stood himself up, unbending his legs slightly, and sucked in air. How it hurt him! How staying alive hurt him more than anything. Ken, the scourging was horrible. Yes, the horns in his head pierced his skull. Yes, the wounds in his hands and feet were far worse than anyone in the entire world would ever go through. But staying alive? That hurt him the most. Every second longer he hung on that cross, he was crushing the sins one more person had or would eventually commit. Every second longer, Satan was being forced deeper into Hell and away from his Children. Every second longer, the Gates of Heaven were slowly being opened, inch by inch.
But Jesus could hardly stay alive for a second longer.
Moaning, Jesus lifted his head towards Heaven and cried out, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?"
In response, the wind picked up, sending intense cold throughout Jesus' entire body. A dark cloud covered the sun, creating a gray atmosphere. Everything was gray and gloomy.
And Jesus was entirely alone.
His Father had turned his back on him, and Jesus knew why. Jesus was carrying the weight of all the sins of the entire world on his shoulders. He was nailed to this cross like a criminal—like a person of sin. His Father didn't see his Son, he saw sins. And that nearly made Jesus weep. He would have, too, it he hadn't been too exhausted and dehydrated. Not even a tear could fall down his face and mix with his blood. Instead, the sins of theft, murder, lying, jealous, envy, and greed dug into his skin, covering up his righteousness and making him feel ashamed—as if he had really committed those sins.
Below him, Jesus heard the Pharisees say, "He is calling Elijah."
"Let us see if Elijah comes and saves him."
But Jesus wasn't calling for Elijah, he was calling for his Heavenly Father. The same Father who had sent him to Earth to rescue his Children. The same Father he had prayed to many hours ago in the Garden and had sent an angel to comfort him. The same Father who now turned his back on his Son, only seeing every sin of every person of the entire world—past and future.
Jesus was exhausted, weak, and in horrible pain, but now he was also alone, for not even his Father could be with him in his time of dire need.

Abenadar, sitting atop his horse, watched in deep remorse as the Nazarene fought with every breath he took. It was horrible the way the Pharisees had condemned him to death when, Abenadar knew, they had only done it out of spite. They should suffer, not this man whose skin was pale from loss of blood, his body rigid with pain, and his forehead breaking out in a cold sweat.
Abenadar watched as the King of the Jews struggled to speak.
"I thirst."
The other Roman soldiers scoffed at him and continued to play their game of dice. Angered, Abenadar climbed down from his horse and stomped over to a lance. He grabbed a hyssop plant, soaked it in wine and vinegar, and stuck it on the end of the lance. Glaring at the soldiers, Abenadar marched over to the foot of the cross and held the lance's end up to Jesus' mouth. The Nazarene struggled to grab the hyssop plant with his teeth, but after a bit Abenadar figured he had gotten some of the mixture.
Watching for a moment longer as the man's breathing became quite labored, Abenadar moved on to the next criminals.

Mary knew what was going to happen. She could sense it, as if her Son was telling her directly. Storm clouds rolled in, kicking up dust and dirt and sending an icy chill through her.
Releasing John's hand, she rushed to the feet of her Son. Tears streaming down her face, she gingerly touched his swollen, bloodied, and blistered feet. She kissed them, blood then covering her lips, chin, and cheeks. Mary gazed up at her Baby Boy through her tears. She tightened her veil around her head, fighting against the cold and the horrid feeling of what was to come.
Jesus looked down at her—blood dripping from his face—for what Mary knew to be one of the last times. In that moment, Mary could hear every word Jesus had once said to her. She could hear him whispering, "I love you, Mommy" from when he was only two years old. She could hear him laughing with her husband Joseph. She could hear him speaking of wonderful times, God's faithfulness, and even his favorite dish of hers. She could see every memory. She could see him being born and when he was first laid in her arms in that little stable of Bethlehem. She could see the time when he took his first steps. She could see the time when he was preaching in the Temple. She could see the time when he worked alongside Joseph in the carpentry business. She could see his smile. She could see his eyes dancing with mischievous and joy. In those moments, standing before the cross, Mary couldn't see a beaten and bloodied Son. She saw the perfect Son of God, the one that had been given to her to care for, and the One she had and always would cherish.
Mary was given the gift of all the memories flooding into her mind in a split second, and she was entirely grateful.
But that moment of happiness for her was gone nearly as soon as it had arrived, for now she did see her injured Son. She did see her Little Boy beaten and bloodied and on the verge of dying. She saw that, and she started to weep, for she knew there was nothing she could do to lessen his pain.
"Mother, don't cry. This is exactly how it's supposed to be."
Glancing up through her fingers, Mary saw Jesus looking down at her for a single moment, a silent thought between them.
Then, in a movement ever so swift, Jesus lifted his head up, cried out, and said, "It...is finished."
As he leaned his head back against the wood, Mary could barely hear his final words:
"Abba, into your...hands, I commend...my spirit."
A sigh was given. Jesus' head fell against his chest, and he gave up his spirit.
The Son of God was dead.