By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Jesus Falls for the First Time

Hey, guys! So, I found another person's point of view. Meet Jacobe (yes, Jacobe, not Jacob). I decided to introduce a simple man who is a Christian who sees Jesus carrying the cross. He needs Jesus' help, but who is he to ask Jesus for help, when it is Jesus who clearly needs the help?

Let me know how I did! God bless and REVIEW!

Jesus Falls for the First Time

Jacobe of Bethlehem came round the corner of his house, carrying a large vase of water. This was his woman's job, but she was ill with fever at the moment. Strictly ill, and Jacobe would gladly do her work if it meant she would be well. It was his fault, anyway. He wanted to move Margaret to Jerusalem—a new start. And besides, Jerusalem at Pontius Pilate, so surely this city would be safer than Bethlehem.

As he pumped the well near his house, he heard a commotion to his left. He lifted his head and squinted his eyes against the sunlight, trying to make out what the ruling crowd and fierce Roman soldiers were yelling at. A man it seemed. No, shloshah men. Two carried the arms parts of a cross, while the bearded man in front carried the entire cross which was, clearly, too heavy for him.

All three males were being led to death by crucifixion.

Jacobe shivered, not willing himself to think that maybe Jerusalem wasn't such a safe city, what with such an angry crowd and so many Roman soldiers, but then he reminded himself those three men were criminals and the city was safer without them. He then hurried back inside before the criminals could come near him. He set the vase down, dipped some water out with a cup, and rushed to his wife's bedside. Her delicate body lay crumbled on top of the bed, her face as white as a clean linen. Her brown hair, as long as her waist and usually so beautiful, was now stringy and haphazardly strewn about. She looked near death.

Jacobe knelt by her side and grasped her hand which was nearly stone cold. "Margaret, my love," he whispered. "Please... Get well. Ani ohevet otcha."

With much effort, his wife opened her eyes. Nearly a whisper, Margaret replied back, "Ani ohevet otcha..." Her eyes closed and her breathing quickened.

Then, she was gone. She didn't move, didn't say anything, didn't flinch as Jacobe tightened his grip on her hand, trying to control his anger. His body shook and eyes swelled with tears, but none fell. Abruptly, he came to stand and hurried out of his house, his feet stomping against the wood and the door slamming behind him.

He nearly tripped over the crowd standing directly in front of him.

"Watch it!" one man said before he returned to his yelling.

Jacobe took better detail of the crowd. Some were throwing rocks, others simply shouting insulting words. And then some...were crying, as he nearly did now. Were there loved ones being condemned to death on a cross? Would those weeping women have to watch as their husband or brother or father bled from the hands and feet and struggled to breathe?

Their pain seemed far worse than what Jacobe felt at that moment, and he found himself entranced as he eyed the bearded criminal—the one carrying the entire cross. He seemed familiar... But he couldn't be. Jacobe had just started living here in Jerusalem. He didn't know many people, and surely he wouldn't know such an evil criminal.

But then the criminal stumbled and fell, the great weight of his cross landing over his back and pressing the crown of thorns deeper into his head. His face remained shoved into the dirt. He didn't lift his head. Didn't move. Jacobe wondered if he were dead. Like Margaret.

Overcome by grief, Jacobe started to walk away, but found himself drawn back to the man on the ground. He had his head lifted now, eyes towards Jacobe. It almost seemed as if this man were looking directly at him. Jacobe studied his face, past the blood, wounds, dirt, thorns, and sweat. He saw kind eyes and caring features. He saw...Jesus the Christ. The Messiah. Jacobe had heard of the Messiah before. Actually, he had put his faith in him nearly two years ago when the Lord came to visit the city he had been in at that time for business. The Lord had put his hand on his shoulder and blessed him, promising him the hope of Heaven. Jacobe had gone home and shared his new faith with Margaret, and she had believed as well.

It was quite impossible to believe the Lord of lords was now too weak to lift his own cross. And why was he having a cross anyway? He deserved a throne.

"There is no greater love than laying down one's life for that of a friend's."

Those words came into Jacobe's brain as if the Lord had just placed them there himself. But why would Jesus have to lay down his life for Jacobe? No answer came to him, but a request did. He hated to ask. He really, really did. Who was he to ask the Lord of lords for such? He wanted to weep right along with those few compassionate ones over his Messiah, but he found himself so numb from his wife's death he couldn't even weep over his Messiah's.

His wife...

Lord, I don't know why the Romans are putting you through such pain. You are the Messiah, don't they know that? You have done nothing but help people your entire life, I know. I want to weep over you—for your pain and sorrow. But I am numb—from my wife's death and from seeing you so unrecognizable. Please forgive me for not weeping over you as those women are doing. Please forgive me for not running out into the street to stop this mutiny. Give me strength, Lord, to understand your will—why this is happening and why my wife has died.

Jacobe turned to go back inside, but words came to him. It was almost as if someone was whispering directly into his ear.

"I am doing this for you. For your sins and for the sins of the world. And your wife isn't dead. Go, see for yourself and be made strong by the strength of the Most High."

Jacobe looked at Jesus, who was standing now with the cross at his side. The Roman soldiers whipped him and the crowd yelled insults, but Jesus didn't move. He stood there, bloodied and weak, and looked directly into Jacobe's heart. Then he continued his quest before him—the quest to be hung on a cross.

Once Jesus was out of view, Jacobe hurried back inside his house and to his wife's bedside. He grabbed Margaret's hand and was surprised by how warm it was—not cold like it had been moments ago. He studied the rest of her and found himself in disbelief at the sight of her healthy skin tone and strong body form. Her hair wasn't stringy—it was beautiful now.

Then, as if death had spoken, Margaret whispered, "Jacobe?"