Sixtus and Erato twisted some thorns into a crown, placing it on his head, and dressed him in a purple robe.
Shouts and screams yelled “Hail king of the Jews! ” while the rest slapped him in the face. The humiliation and disgrace, the agony he was subjected to, the mere shreds the man was reduced to was all so unbelievable. It was hard to imagine the pain and suffering he must have experienced. His face drooped looking tired and frail.
A sorrowful expression upon his face, the hurt and rejection engraved in the lines of his furrowed brow and pensive gaze. Jesus came out wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Here is the man! ” the crowd roared.
They cheered on, as if at an auditorium waiting for fiery chariots to roll out. Crucify him! Crucify him! The unmerciful cries were distinct and loud. The deception and betrayal rung out clear in the uprising of the gathering attending the final showdown. Jesus bowed his head as if in penance, as if honouring God before and above him, as if leaning for support. The hurtful, almost triumphant crowd gaped on, amazed at the sight, the reduction of a man to the most worthless and pathetic state, stripped of his humanity, his dignity, and his life.It was in ways slightly pitiful and deep down I felt a rising in my stomach, something that questioned my actions, my command of the spear in my hand and my fellow centurions in command.
No, I did not wonder to interrogate the man’s innocence, neither did I dismiss the thought that if he was who he claimed to be, how absolutely inane it would be. “We have a law, and according to the Law he ought to die, because he has claimed to be the Son of God. ” The verdict was passed and the men walked out briskly, conducting the matter with a civil air about them, as if instructed to deal with some sort of plague.
Though in every way the subject was human, of flesh and blood, just as any one of us; yet his claims bold, that crowns himself the righteous king, and above all the King of the Jews. How by any stretch of imagination could he possibly be Son of God? For he is simple peasant, of the lowest rung and order of society. A crack in the broken tiling of the pathway, nothing more than a meaningless cobblestone kicked away on the sidewalk, a drop of water in the ocean, a tiny contribution in the vivacity of the world.A man to be noted for his unpopularity, his ill fate, his unlucky redemption, his fatal final judgement – his call of death! A man doomed by destiny and the destruction of his own people, the ones he so ironically came down to gratify, save and award salvation.
Take him away, take him away. Crucify him! The death toll repeated continuously, spreading an ominous vibe. Shockwaves of surprised and excited people partook in the celebrating, pure aggressive pleasure. Then they took charge of Jesus and carrying his own cross he went out of the city to the place of the skull, the fields of death, or as it was called in Hebrew, Golgotha.Sweat rolled down his forehead, his hair hung limp, matted down his head and his back. The dirt smudges ran along his body, and bruises entwined his body, sapping little sprouts that bleed.
They crucified him with two others, one on either side with Jesus in the middle. His face burdened with the conscience of the crowd, and the awareness of the actual situation. Pilate wrote out a notice and fixed it to the cross; it ran: ‘Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews. ‘ It was engraved in three of the regional languages so onlookers came to stare and to mock.When the soldiers finished crucifying Jesus they took his clothing and divided it into four shares, one for each soldier. His undergarment was seamless, woven in one piece from neck to hem, so one said to one another, instead of tearing it, lets throw dice to decide who is to have it.
They reduced whatever sliver of self-respect he may have had to absolutely nothing. He had been robed of it all, he was a dead body that no one cared about, a corpse that had only faded away shortly, separated by hatred in the same ugly way that he was hated when he lived.