"This man has been accused and convicted of treason and sedition," the officer reads. "He is a threat to the Empire and to humanity. Under the watchful eye of our Lord, Tiberius Caesar, and by order of Governor Pilatus, he shall be crucified. Let all the enemies of Rome see what happens to the enemies of Rome. Jesus, formerly of the city of Nazareth, King of the Jews, is now cursed and rejected by all people."
The soldiers grab hold of Jesus, two of them take his shoulders and push him to the beam of wood Simon carried, now lying on the ground near the upright pole. They throw him to the ground, not a difficult feat given his condition. All the while they laugh and joke, making rude comments and insulting the Jewish people in general. Once on the ground, the executioners take over, pull Jesus by the arms to the beam, like he was a bag of sand. His back scrapes along the rocks and dirt, blood streams along the ground. The other soldiers stand back and watch, more bored than anything else. Some stand near the crowd, worried that followers might try and rise up in defense as occasionally happened.
"Looks
like this king doesn't have very loyal subjects," one of the Romans says,
garnering a laugh. "Not even willing to lift a finger to help him out
at a bad time like this. They never do stand together do they?"
"He is not our king," a Jewish leader yells, "Do not call him our king."
"Always a good idea for a king to have an army," says another, ignoring the man, "hard to defend this wonderful kingdom without an army."
"I hear he had an army," the first one says, "they have to live in the hillsides and yell unclean all the time."
"Yeah, or spend the morning begging for food, so we better hurry here before they scrape up something to eat and have enough strength to fight back."
"I heard his isn't what you would call a military kingdom, more of a kingdom of love," a soldier said, laughing. "You picked the wrong temple to preach in, my friend, sounds like you would have been better off at the temple of Aphrodite."
"That explains all the prostitutes and women following him," the executioner who was now pulling his left arm back says. "Okay, sire, let's get this started."
Jesus lay there, pain in his eyes, his breathing becoming short and shallow. You can see he is dying. Even if someone did rescue him now, he wouldn't live. The executioner picks up a spike, and places the point of it on his wrist, carefully arranging it, knowing the exact spot to hold him up without letting him bleed to death within a couple of hours.
BANG! Blood spurts out, the nail goes through Jesus' wrist, halfway into the wood. Jesus tilts his head back, making no sounds. His eyes go wide and roll back into his head
BANG! The nail goes through more. He closes his eyes, then opens them again. His breathing quickens.
BANG! The hammer pounds the head into his wrist all the way through, slamming into his flesh. You see the tip sticking out the back of the wood.
"There you are, nice and comfortable."
"I'm thinking he's used to a little bit different form of service. He doesn't seem to pleased with what you have to offer."
"Ungrateful, that's what all these Jews are. Okay, let's get that other hand."
BANG! More blood, Jesus appears to faint. BANG! BANG!
You look at the Pharisees and priests who dared to come. They stare, without emotion, without even a hint of regret. One young man even has a smug smile. He couldn't be more than eighteen.
The soldiers pull the beam of wood, dragging Jesus next to the upright pole.
Some in the crowd start crying again. One of them, standing with the accursed tax collectors, traitors all of them, is looking with anguish, and even fear. He looks familiar. Wait, you recognize him, he's one of the disciples. You don't see the rest, he seems to be the only one to witness, daring to watch. If the Pharisees recognize him now... Probably why he is standing where he is.
"Let's get him up, I'm feeling a little hungry after all this work."
"I hear they're making us a nice little feast in their temple. I love lamb, with a little wine, some bread, great stuff."
"I get the feeling they might not want to share with you, not without a little... fixing up on your part."
"No food is worth that," the soldier laughs, "what a disgusting god, eh? Ready?"
The soldiers grab the beam, three on each side, lifting it high. Jesus is pulled to a sitting position, his eyelids are still open, though there doesn't seem to be any awareness, any life left at all.
They lift the beam over their heads, a few more using small ladders, lift up more and place the crosspiece onto the top of the pole, setting it into the large groove. There is a small piece of wood a little higher than the middle, that he is rested on. It's not a seat, though it does hold his weight a very slight bit.
Jesus hangs by his arms, slips off to the side, all his weight now pulling on the nails in his wrist.
"Hold him, hold him," the executioner yells. "He'll suffocate like this."
Two
soldiers grab Jesus and hold him up, while the executioner grabs two more
nails. He steps over, grabs Jesus' left ankle, twists the foot, and pounds
the nail in, making sure he is back on the seat, and his knees are slightly
bent.
BANG! The other nail goes in, blood spurts into the face of the Roman, who curses, and wipes it off. BANG!
"That's it, I'm done."
"The sign."
"Right, forgot about that."
He grabs the board on the ground, climbs the ladder.
With only a slight amount of effort he nails in the board, the charges against Jesus, so that all who pass by can see what not to do, while they see why not.
"That is not the charge against him," the young man yells. "Those are lies, take down that sign!"
"That's his crime. That's his reason for being killed. A lesson to you all."
The young man starts to run out, he's grabbed by the others around.
"Watch it, son," the officer says. "We have more crosses around, if you're not careful."
The soldiers go and sit a dozen feet away, throwing dice, passing the time. Jesus' nice clothes, the ones carried by one of the soldiers, lay nicely folded next to them.
You look back at Jesus. His head lolls on his chest. The agony in his now awake eyes is overwhelming to you. He lifts himself up with each breath, falling as he exhales. Blood pours from his gashes and now from his wrists and ankles. You can't recognize him anymore as being the great Teacher. Hanging there, naked and bloody, beaten to an absolute wreck, he is anything but the charge against him.
You read the sign: "This is Jesus, King of the Jews."
He looks down from the cross, at the crowd, at you. You look away, unable to bear this anymore. "What I do, I do for you," he said, seemingly so long ago. The sacrifice has been made, the chosen one of God has been slain for your sins.
The sun was now high in the sky, it was about a half hour until noon. Birds were no longer singing, thick clouds were moving in from the west.
"My Jesus, by your agony when the cruel nails pierced Your tender hands and feet and fixed them to the cross, my sins were fastened as well and I was freed. May they stay nailed and may I be a slave to them no longer."
