By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Jesus is Imprisoned

A short chapter, I know, but I couldn't think of anything else to explain how Jesus was imprisoned. But the good thing is, hopefully, in this short chapter, I touched you guys :) Every time I read this part, I get so sad all over again. The pain he went through. And for whom? ME! YOU!

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Jesus is Imprisoned

The Roman soldiers, when they had finished beaten him to near death, led Jesus away. Each and every passerby-er either glared, laughed, or cried at the sight of his wounds. Jesus' left eye was swollen shut, his lip busted, and his nose possible broken. His feet had been trampled on by each of the Roman soldier's sandals, all the while bearing the pain of past thorn and rock wounds. His hair covered his face now, hiding his shame.

Yes, Jesus was embarrassed. For three years he had cured the sick, healed the lame, given sight to the blind, forgiven the sinners, and spoken of Love and Truth. Never had Jesus been cruel or harsh, or meant any kind of harm for anyone. On the contrary, Jesus had wanted every single soul to be cleansed with new life, born again. That way, those souls would not have to bear the pure torture of Hell. There was no happiness in Hell. Jesus had told the Pharisees and followers that. There was wailing and grinding of teeth. No water, just unquenchable fire. And Satan. Demons. The devils of Hell covered all the light of Heaven, covered the happiness, and covered up the glory Heaven could have brought to all. Jesus knew this world was fallen—this world he was in now. He knew that. He knew the sins every person had committed, and their thoughts. He knew of what had been in the present and what was still to come. But still, this world had sunshine on a Spring day, and flowers growing on the Mount where had spoken most of his teachings. Earth had a blue sky and a gentle breeze, and even some happiness and love spread by his followers.

But Hell had none of that. Jesus wanted to prevent every single soul from going to Hell. He wanted to plead to them, "Stop sinning! Please!" like he had so many times. Yet, mostly people would laugh at him. Mock him. Of course, Jesus could force the people of Earth to go to Heaven with him. He could in a matter of a split second, but what good was a Heaven where people were forced to stay there? From the beginning of Adam and Eve, God had given man a precious gift—free will. Yes, it was a gift, if used correctly. But that free will had gone sour the moment innocent people were tortured and killed, people turned their backs on God, and there was hardly any more Love because everyone thought they could do what they wanted.

Sometimes, Jesus regretted giving man that gift. But the people he had hand-formed in their mother's womb were not toys to play with. He couldn't coax them into believing what he wanted them to believe—they had to choose to do it for themselves. And by all Jesus' teachings, he would have thought people would have realized that he wished to help them. But yet here were the Roman soldiers, mockers, and Pharisees condemning him to death even before he had seen Pontius Pilate.

The soldiers dragged Jesus towards the cells and threw him in.

"Wait," one said, "That is too much room for him. Tie him to the ceiling. He should be happier there. He can then lift his hands up to his Father!" He went away laughing.

Grabbing his wrists with much force, a soldier forced Jesus' arms to the ceiling of the cell and tied them there. Jesus had to stand on his toes in order that his wrists wouldn't be rubbed raw by the ropes. The chains around his neck had also been tightened, so as he hung there, it was almost as if he was been choked.

The soldiers didn't leave for a matter of a few minutes. They stood there, mocking and laughing at Jesus, kicking his side, almost cracking his ribs.

"Pray, Jesus! Pray! Lift your hands to the Heavens and pray!"

"Yeah, pray to your Father!"

"No, no, no. Our Father! Remember that prayer he told us to say? Our Father...who aren't in Heaven! Hallowed be your name!"

Jesus almost couldn't bear the mockery of his prayers and instructions. He had told them to everyone with such love, and yet they spat them back with fire and brimstone.

When the soldiers finally let Jesus be, Jesus glanced his eyes towards Heaven and said, "Father, I know this is your will. But if possible, I still wish for this chalice to be taken away from me. But not as my will, but as yours."

As expected, Jesus received no answer. His Father had been with him though—in the Garden, in the court surrounded by the Sanhedrin. Could he be with Jesus now? Send an angel to comfort him?

Out of the corner of Jesus' eye, he spotted some of his Apostles—Thomas, Philip, and Andrew. They watched from a distance, not daring to get closer and barely daring to look at him. So that is what it had come to? His Apostles could hardly look at him. Yet Jesus knew what they were thinking.

Thomas wondered why Jesus was taking the pain, and there was even a thread of doubt if he really was the Messiah, since wouldn't he rescue himself?

Philip was asking the Father to save Jesus.

Andrew worried about his brother, Peter. Peter is Jesus' Rock. He should be here with us.

Jesus already knew where Peter was. He was hidden away in a house, crying and crying. Numerous times, Peter had called out, "Forgive me, Lord!" and Jesus had forgiven him. Long ago, he had.

Yet Jesus wasn't worried about Peter. He was worried about Judas. Jesus had been pouring his heart and words into Judas' mind, but Satan had taking over.