By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Behold, the Man!

Well, I have finally updated my Jesus story!  Finally, yes, I know it's been a while.  But hey, it's summer.  So enjoy reading!  Be touched.  And please please please review!  Do you have suggestions for me?  Would you like to see another person's point of view?  Let me know and I'll see what I can do!

Behold, the Man!

Pilate was unable to speak when he spotted Jesus for the first time after his scourgings. At least, he thought it was Jesus. He wasn't quite sure of the identity of the man before him. Beaten, bloodied, covered in a purple cloth, and crowned in thorns, it seemed as though this Jesus was being used as scourging practice, or an object of plain mockery.

Pilate fumed. He had asked the Roman soldiers to carefully monitor the scourging procedure. Obviously they had not monitored it, had they? Pilate should whip them...

Instead, he stomped over to where the guards where holding Jesus up by each grasping an arm. The man looked about ready to die. Either that or slip into unconsciousness. Which would probably be better, since then he wouldn't be able to endure the excruciating pain.

Slowly walking over to the man he assumed was not guilty of his crimes, Pilate paid care to not step on his bloody feet or trip over the heavy purple robe thrown over his shoulders. Fingers gingerly reaching out, Pilate touched Jesus' arm and looked him in the eye. Jesus looked up, and for the first time since this entire ordeal, Pilate saw something in Jesus' eyes, even though they were nearly swollen shut. He saw something more than kindness and unguiltiness. He saw understanding. He didn't see anger. He didn't see resentment. He saw understanding, as if this Jesus knew he had to do this. And for what reason? Pilate was no expert on knowing what others communicated through eye conversation, but he clearly see what Jesus said now. It was almost as if Jesus wanted Pilate to know what he was thinking. But why?

Motioning for Jesus to step forward towards the balchony wall, Pilate winced. He saw how much it hurt Jesus to take a single step—to even lift his foot up enough to shuffle along. Jesus didn't cry out, didn't beg for him to let him go. He just shuffled along as Pilate instructed.

Pilate swore. Why hadn't those soldiers listened to him when he said to watch them whip Jesus? He had wanted Jesus to simply be punished for whatever crime Caiphas is sure he commited, not scourged to death. Now it probably would have been better if Jesus had been scourged to death, then his pain would be gone. And so would Pilate's, since soon he had to look into the face of his wife Claudia and explain to her why this man was unrecognizable.

Looking out to the crowd, with Jesus by his side, Pilate wondered what to say. Really, he could say whatever he wanted. He was Pilate. The ruler. Not the crowd, not Caiphas and the rest of his Pharisee followers. Him. Pilate. But for some reason, only one sentence came to Pilate's mind at that moment. As the crowd waited unpatiently for him to speak, Pilate pointed at Jesus and shouted, "Ecce homo!"

All in the crowd responded by shouting hateful words. They had no mercy.

Then, without batting an eye, Caiphas called, "Crucify him!"

Pilate stumbled back instantly. He couldn't help it. Were they seeing what he was seeing? Were they seeing his unhuman-like creature standing next to him, too? A creature so unrecognizable, his mother probably wouldn't be able to know if it was him or not. A creature so scourged, fresh blood constantly dripped off the end of his nose and fingers, creating droplets of red on the ground, like rain. Not to mention the bloody footprints that were already stained into Pilate's bleached floors. And did they see the thorned crown that was impaled into his skull? Maybe the crowd failed to see that. Pilate had to make that clear to them the burtality of what this man had already endured.

"Do you see him?" Pilate shouted, angered. "Do you see this man by my side? He is soaked in blood. Has been scourged so much that he is beyond recognition. He wears a crown of large thorns—"

"Crucify him!" Caiphas called out, cutting off Pilate.

That did it.

"No! He will not be crucified!"

But his words were drown out as the entire crowd started to chant what Caiphas had started.

Frantic, Pilate leaned close to Jesus and, not taking his eye off the people, whispered, "Listen to me. I have power to crucify you or the power to release you."

Jesus lifted his head up. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, but he managed to lift his lids up enough so that Pilate could see his eyes. Then he said, so silently, "You do not have power unless it was given to you from above. I have the power to lay down my life and take it up again. You only have what the One has given you."

"Who is the One?"

Jesus only stared blankly at Pilate, as if he was supposed to know that himself. But Pilate didn't know. And right now, he didn't want to think about it. He had to calm this unruly crowd, not try to configure what this man was talking about. He was probably just delirious. Pilate never should have said anything, for it now jumbled his emotions even more.

The crowd began to riot again, much like they had when they wanted Jesus scourged. Well, they had wanted him crucifed then, not scourged. And Pilate had scourged Jesus, thinking this would settle their anger with him. But it didn't. And now they still wanted him crucified.

Pilate turned his head, and he just caught sight of his wife Claudia walking away, her skirts snaking around the corner of the palace. He gritted his teeth in anger. Pilate shouldn't be responsible for this man's death.

In one swift movement, Pilate summoned his servant with a snap of the fingers. The small bald man, dressed in a red tunic, hurried over, carefully trying not to spill the gold bowl he carried. Pilate addressed the crowd, then slowly lowered his fingers into the water. He made a great show of having the water flow over his hands, under his palms, and drip off the tips of his fingers. Then, he dried them off.

"Crucify him as you wish!" he finally shouted. He had to end this. He needed to end this. "But I will not be held accountable for this man's death. His blood shall not be upon me."

Without hesitation, the crowd proclaimed, "His blood be upon us and upon our children."

And with that, Pilate walked away from the balcony and into his palace, not once looking back into the eyes of the King of the Jews.