Jesus, although acutely aware of the multitude’s presence, remained stolid. Gethsemane was now but a memory. The crisis was passed. Soul and Spirit were united for all eternity. The cross was a necessity. Reconciliation between God and man was less than seven hours away, as man reckoned time.
The crowd screamed in unison, the myriad angry voices crying out for blood: “THE LAW SAYS HE MUST DIE. . .” “DEATH TO THE BLASPHEMER. . .” “LET HIM BE CRUCIFIED. . .” “HIS BLOOD BE ON US AND ON OUR CHILDREN. . .”
The clamorous sounds escaping from between their snarling lips sounded very much like the hungered growling that came from the packs of wild dogs that roamed Jerusalem unchecked.
The man from Galilee was barely able to stand. His skin was like pulp, the bones beneath His disfigured flesh laid bare by a brutal scourging. The bits and pieces of metal and glass tied to the end of the Roman whip had viciously scoured His sun-darkened, olive-colored skin. Thirty-nine times—one shy of death.
Clumps of hair had been torn from His head during the beatings and the sweat-stained strands that remained were knotted together by dried blood. Yet, for all His pain, there was serenity in His eyes that cried out for recognition.
The rabid crowd never saw the silent, sagacious plea in Jesus’ serene eyes. Their mouths shouted caustically for vindication. Their hearts were hardened to truth.
Large red drops of liquid life trickled from the man who fed the hungry, healed the sick, made the blind to see, and raised the dead. His undefiled blood mingled with the stale, dry earth, foreshadowing the outcome of His unselfish sacrifice. The rising hum of anger enveloping the seething mass of people sounded like a hive of highly agitated bees. The air was filled with the scent of death. No one would speak in favor of the Son of God.
Pilate’s soldiers took Jesus into the common hall. There, they stripped Him naked and put a scarlet robe upon His torn and bleeding back, a reed in His right hand and a crown of thorns upon His head. They laughed viciously, mocking Him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews.” One of them slapped His face. Another spit on Him.
Time slowed . . .
The crowd lining the Via Dolorosa was a gauntlet of screaming spectators. Jesus stoically carried the iron-like weight of His own cross towards the outskirts of the city, staggering under the painful burden of the rough-hewn wood, until Simon of Cyrene was compelled by an impatient centurion to intercede.
The procession arrived at Golgotha. . .the place of the skull. . .the mound of death outside the Holy City. To the south was a deep, narrow glen. There, in times past, the Jews offered up their children in sacrifice to Moloch, the fire god. Now, it served as a receptacle for all sorts of putrefying matter from the city. Small fires smoldered constantly in the ravine’s belly, and the heat from the fires combined with the heat from the blazing sun released foul smelling gases that defiled the otherwise fresh air around Jerusalem.
A slight breeze began to blow, carrying with it the nauseous smells from the Valley of Hinnmon: Gehenna. . . Hades. . . Sheol.
Hell.
The day seemed to buckle under the weight of the atrocity about to occur, its shudder felt in the wails of those who knew innocence. Jesus groaned three times as each of the two-pound iron spikes securing Him to the cross pierced His body. Miraculously missing bone, they settled with muffled thuds! into their wooden cradles.
Several women wailed loudly.
In the distance, just outside the city gate, a lone Praetorian watched the savage proceedings. Bewildered, he wondered why tears kept welling up in his eyes like fat drops of rain, overflowing them, and running down the parched dryness of his sunburned face. He stared unblinking at the cloudless, brilliant blue sky, ignoring the ache in his belly.
How long will it be?
Shortly after the sun reached its zenith, the sky above Jerusalem and Golgotha suddenly turned black and ominous. It remained that way for three hours. At about the ninth hour of the day, Jesus cried out from where He hung with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!”
Without warning, a howling wind arose.
The four soldiers guarding the cross looked at one another fearfully.
From the cross, Jesus spoke for the last time. “It is finished . . .”
The dry, dusty earth began to quake violently, throwing two of the soldiers to the ground. Rain fell from the blackened, cloudless sky. Propelled by a howling wind, it pummeled the earth for several minutes, and then stopped as abruptly as it had started. Suddenly there was a total absence of sound. All eternity stood still for a heartbeat. The unnatural silence was unnerving.
One of the Roman Centurions stared at the cross and said in a hushed voice, “Truly this man was the Son of God.” Another, the Praetorian, pierced the Nazarene’s side with the hardened point of his spear. He watched with glazed, weary blue-grey eyes as blood and water gushed from the wound, splattering his tunic.
Earth and blood blended together into a copper-colored mud, staining his sandals.
Later, inside the city, Joseph Caiaphas gasped and clutched at his chest in pain when he heard the news that the veil of the Temple had been rent in half. That night he cried out in agony from the midst of a nightmare, saying, “Ecce homo. . .”
Behold the man.
Contact the Author
Contact Michael at [email protected] or visit his website at www.michaeljwebbfiction.com.
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