By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Jesus Carries his Cross

             And so Jesus begins the almost mile to carrying his cross....                               

Jesus Carries his Cross

The wood used to be rough. Coarse. Would give any person a splinter if they fingered it. But of course, his hands were too tough for splinters to dig their way into his skin. Especially with all the work he had been doing.

Jesus gently moved his hand over the large beam. There used to be crevices and holes from insect infestation. Old nails used to be dug deep into the center and sides of the wood.

But now there were none of those blemishes. No holes, no crevices, no nails. And no way it would give anyone a splinter. The wood was smooth. Like...a flowing river. Or a smooth as wine being poured into the awaiting chalice.

"If this chalice shall pass from me, my Lord and Father..."

Jesus looked heavenward as he stumbled forward. He knew the answer to what his Father didn't yet tell him aloud, but he still had to ask.

There were two others along with Jesus that would be condemned to death by hanging from a tree. Both whom Jesus knew before they were born. Both whom's names were written on the palm of his hand. Both whom Jesus loved very dearly.

One of them, the more agitated, began cursing and swearing at Jesus while the Romans threw a large beam over his shoulders and tied his hands over it with ropes. Around his neck hung chains. On his skin, the visible parts, were large strips of purple and blue, where he had been whipped the day before Jesus. The criminal's eyes were cold as he cursed, "Haha! Jesus? King of the Jews? Why is a king being condemned! You are no king! You are a fool!"

The other criminal looked the same physically as the angry one, but his personality was quite the opposite. He remained mute and peaceful. He looked at Jesus with questions. Jesus wanted to answer those questions aloud, since he could read the man's heart, but he only looked at him with compassion and kindness.

Then Jesus turned his head towards his own cross thrown next to him. It was a complete cross, like a lowercase t. He glanced it over. There his hands would be nailed...there is feet would be nailed... The wood wasn't smooth. There were crevices and holes from insect infestation. His tender skin would more than likely be covered in splinters and blisters.

Yet he embraced his cross. He thanked his father profoundly for the wood that composed this cross and the hands that put it together.

But he didn't get to pray long, not even for strength, because a Roman soldier lifted up the cross and literally dropped it on Jesus' right shoulder, forcing Jesus to support the entire cross with the right side of his body.

"Get a move on!" someone called, and the pedestrians standing by jeered.

Jesus attempted to lift the cross on the ground, for he knew he had to start walking the almost mile to Golgotha. As soon as he tried, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it. Not with human strength at least, and he wouldn't at all use Godly advantage. He could, of course. But he wouldn't. That wouldn't be right. How could he save the sins of the entire world when he used such strength that could lift up that heavy cross with only a finger?

Just as he was pondering how he would carry this cross, and pleading to his Father for some sort of help, just so he could lift it, he heard singing. Glorious singing. He closed his eyes and felt the comfort of someone hugging him—and he knew it wasn't a Roman soldier. The hug was...warm and wonderful and glorious—as if his own Father had come down from Heaven and wrapped his arms around his Son. Jesus managed a small, just the tiniest, of smiles. Then, the cross slowly was lifted off his shoulders. The singing continued, as did the comforting hug. He opened his eyes and saw four angels, three of them assisting him in his quest to carry the cross.

The angels only helped him lift the wood and get started, then each one of them pressed their lips on his cheek and kissed him farewell.

Jesus nearly wept to see them go and, in place of them, the scowling Roman soldiers, whips in their hands.

The pain, again, for Jesus was nearly unbearable. No, it was unbearable. The heavy purple robe removed from him, Jesus could feel the cross digging into his shoulder, as well as his scourging wounds. Opposite of the other criminals, Jesus' wounds had not had a time to heal—they were raw and bleeding. His feet were swollen, as was his face. He could barely see out his eyes, and when he did, the dust from the crowd clouded his vision and irritated them even more. Every step he took shot new pain through his body—from the whippings, bruises, and beatings. Every step he took—every time he tried to shuffle along—he felt faint. He was feverish and sweaty. He hadn't eaten or drank since that Thursday evening. He'd lost so much blood, he felt light headed, especially with the blistering heat beating down on him and nearly boiling the blood that covered his forehead.

The two criminals remained behind Jesus, carrying half of the cross they would be nailed to. They were whipped as they walked just like Jesus was. The one remained mute while the other would not cease cursing.

"Avah marduwth!" Jesus would hear him say. "Damn you! Damn all of you! Damn Jesus of Nazareth! I swear it, you all will pay you, avah marduwth!"

Jesus tried to drown out his talking, for he was only wishing to concentrate on the quest ahead of him. But it was quite difficult to focus when the crowd jeered and shouted, spitting on his face and sometimes even kicking him. The soldiers continued to whip him though he was shuffling along. A general walked ahead on horseback, his red cape draped over the horse's rump. The red was the same color of wine...like the wine he had changed into his blood that Thursday. Like the blood that dripped from every part of him now.