You run ahead, down the alleys, up a larger, busier street, then back to the procession. Animals, sheep and cattle, are in the road, blocking your way. You try to squeeze past. The sheep bleat as you push them. Their shepherd yells at you, something about ruining his stock. Pure white, perfect, these sheep are on their way to the Temple, of that there is no doubt. He is going to make a profit. You do not have time to admire them, other sacrifices are being made.
You run faster once the sheep are behind you, back to the
path. Again, you are not alone, though the men coming towards you do not
seem to care about what is coming. They are sweating, dirty; field
laborers coming in after what looks like a week worth of work. All of
them seem tired, their laughs forced. They 
are
headed away from the road.
You ask one of them, the dark-skinned one, an African from his looks, "Have they passed?"
He grunts back, "Who?"
"The soldiers," you say, trying to catch your breath at the same time. "Jesus."
Another one asks, "The prophet? Why is he with soldiers?"
You respond, , "They arrested him. He's being crucified."
The men stop and stare at you.
"Crucify him? What has he done?"
"The chief priests turned him over to Pilate," you say, "told him they wanted Jesus crucified."
The words sound unbelievable as you speak them, even though you know it true.
"I knew this would happen," the dark skinned one says. "Didn't he heal your cousin, Jacob?"
"Yeah, he was blind. Not anymore."
The sounds of the procession grow, interrupting your conversation. Children run by again, laughing and teasing, the same rich leaders and poor beggars lead the way. Then Jesus comes.
He has lost his strength, the glow in his eyes is gone. Somewhere along that path, he seemed to lose his soul. How he stayed up, you didn't know. His hair, his clothes, were covered in filth and rotten plants. People were pelting him with whatever they could find, though it seemed the soldiers kept them from throwing any stones. The beam on his shoulders kept hitting the walls, turning him, making him stumble.
Three Romans walk past, you and the others step back, keeping out of the way. Jesus slips on something, crashes against the wall, falls sideways, the beam hitting the ground first. He follows it down, hits the ground with his jaw. He doesn't move, even when a soldier kicks him.
"We're never going to get there like this," an officer says. He looks around, deciding what to do.
"Come here," he says, looking your way. You think he's talking to you.
"Come here, now," he orders, pointing not at you but at the dark skinned laborer. The man pauses, then walks out. You all know the law, if a soldier orders someone, anyone, to do a task, not doing it is a very serious crime. People have died trying to resist. The Romans see it is a continual assertion of their power, and so breaking this law is rebellion.
The man shrugs, he is already tired.
The
soldiers push him over, needlessly for he was willing, and lift the beam off of
Jesus, putting it on this man's shoulders. He shrinks under the weight for a
moment, then stands up, ready to get this over.
Before he walks forward, he leans down, the beam still on his shoulders, and helps Jesus to his feet. For a moment it looks like Jesus will fall again, the weariness in his eyes is clear, his whole body has decided it has done its part. The man does not let go, the Romans wait, knowing that force now would be counterproductive. Jesus seems to awaken from his stupor, realizing the weight is off him. He stands again, looks at the man holding the beam, stares into his eyes with a glimmer of the power he used to always have.
"Thank you, Simon," he says.
Jesus starts walking, ahead of the soldiers. They, and Simon, follow. Rather than running back down the alley, you step in right behind the soldiers, not caring anymore if they hit or abuse you. You are lost, caught in this, frightened and amazed. You want to throw the soldiers out of the way, and take Jesus back to safety. Only you can't. You are weak. All you can do is watch, and follow.
The sound of voices, taunts and yells, weeping and crying fill your ears. You still hear the sound of the Temple, all those animals being killed. Death has full power on this day, all your senses are consumed with its presence. You walk along with the procession, getting splashed and hit by errant trash, watching only the steps of Jesus, faltering and strong all at once.
"My Jesus, thrice blest was he who aided You to bear the cross. Blest too shall I be if I aid You to bear the cross, by patiently bowing my neck to the crosses others are burdened under.
My Jesus, give me grace to do so."
