By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

The Crowning of Thorns

The Crowning of Thorns

Led to side of Pilate's palace, Jesus struggled with each step. He had slashes on his feet, and no one but him could imagine the pain he was feeling. It wasn't even his pain he should be enduring. Since the fall of Adam and Eve, even before then, Jesus knew he would be doing this. While he awaited his coming down from Heaven to be born of the virgin Mary, he knew the pain he would be going through. Thousands of years before it would happen, he saw the pain. He knew each beating he would endure, each bruise that would mark his body. He knew each and every slash that would cut and tear his flesh to pieces—even the weapon that would be used. He knew what was, and what was still to come.

And that frightened him. Truly and surely, it frightened him.

The Romans led him past the marble pillars, along the wall. The blood on Jesus' feet left a trail of footprints. He tried to curl up his body by tucking his shoulders inward, in hopes of his tunic not touching his severely injured skin, but that hardly helped. His rough, scratchy, bloody, clothing used to comfort him. His Mother, his Blessed Mother, had sewn that for him the day before he had left the house for his ministry. It been a gift, one would say. A simple, gift. But a gift he treasured. And he wore it now. But it brought no comfort this time—a time in which he desperately needed comfort.

In front of him, the six soldiers stopped. The drunkest one, whom Jesus knew before he was even born, gripped Jesus' shoulder and thrust him in marble chair. His tail bone crashed against the hard surface, but he remained mute to his complaints. Instead, he tried to curl up in a tight ball by dragging his legs as close to his chest as possible, without actually lifting them off the ground. That required too much energy.

Jesus shivered. His teeth chattered together. Not from the cold, but from the pain.

One of the shisha came over with a bucket of dirty mayim. Without hesitation, he tipped the bucket over and poured it on Jesus' head. Instead of sweet relief, the dirty water only infected his wounds more and slowed his blood flow, due to the coldness of the liquid. Jesus sat there, in a puddle of his own blood and water, as the soldiers began to mock him.

"How can you appear before the Pontious looking that way? You purify others, so you say, and now I have purified you. Behold this precious liquid, King! It is worth three hundred pence!"

Jesus nearly sobbed at the mocking. Not only did they mock him and proclaim the dirty water as a precious ointment worth three hundred pence, but they mocked his dear friend Mary of Magdala. Mary of Magdala had once washed his feet with her tears and dried them off with her hair, as well as anointing his head with oil worth a fortune. Now, the soldiers mocked the act and continued to scornfully tease him.

Then, one soldier came around the corner, carrying a brownish red, circular object. As he walked, fiddling with the item, he stopped in his tracks and shook his hand, as if he had somehow injured it. Irritated, he rushed over to Jesus. Jesus then saw what it was, not that he didn't know what it was before. A crown. A crown of thorns. Maybe ten or twenty thorns, still attached to their vines, wrapped around in a circle, the points sticking out at every possible angle.

Words of his Father came rushing back to him. "...thorns also and thistles shall the ground bring forth to thee..." Also, the image of his son Abraham finding the thorn in the thicket flashed through his mind. "...By its horns in the thicket..." was the ram caught. Jesus felt caught at that moment. Sure, he could freeze time and walk away without a scratch on him, but he needed to do this.

Jesus braced himself for the impact of pain that would come in the next few seconds. And the pain did come. The soldier pressed the crown of thorns upon Jesus' holy skull. He didn't even push down hard, but the pain was unbearable. The thorns dug into his skin. Then, to make matters even worse, a soldier marched over with a long stick. He pushed the stick against the crown of thorns and pushed with all his might. The soldier was strong, Jesus knew, for he was the one who had given him such strength. Each thorn dug very deeply into his skull. He almost became unconscious, and welcomed the thought of it, but his Father stopped his passing out and allowed him to endure the pain, which Jesus knew he must. Blood dripped down Jesus' forehead like droplets of sweat. It stung horribly when it trickled into his eyes.

"A crown for you, King! And here—a purple robe to show your royalty!" In haste, the soldiers stood Jesus up, took off his tunic, and thrust a large, heavy purple robe over his naked shoulders. Jesus' mouth open as if almost wishing to exclaim some sort of pain, but he stopped himself before any words could escape.

All shisha of the soldiers fell to their knees and began showing Jesus homage. They lowered their outstretched arms, then raised them in the air, then lowered them again, crying out, "Hail King of the Jews! Hail King of the Worms!"

Jesus cowered there in his seat, head throbbing beyond belief, scourging wounds bleeding profoundly once more. As he continued to endure the mockings, he slightly turned his head. When he did, a single, small tear fell down his cheek and dripped off his beard.