The Death and Resurrection Consolidated

The Crucifixion

Friday morning.

Having made it to "the place of the skull", the crosses were dropped by their distraught bearers and the man Simon. We can believe that Jesus was either shoved down or collapsed on His own accord to the spot where they would drive the spikes through His wrists and ankles, His feet sore from the rough path, His back and face still bleeding from the scourging and beating.

The place was a rather interesting area. It was a broad, low hill on which gardens were interspersed with tombs and areas too rocky to grow anything. It was in those more lifeless areas where life was taken from men.

The hole for the cross would have been pre-dug or naturally planted with a long-dead tree. The dry, rocky soil would have been stained with the blood of countless others crucified in the same spot. Perhaps the post for the cross was once a tree which had been cut to receive the beam. If not, the post may have been carried up by the Romans, and there would have been a rocky outcrop (of which there were many) to lean the completed cross after they, with large hand-wrought spikes, had nailed His wrists to the cross-beam and feet to the main beam; from there, it could have easily been slidden into a hole.

Otherwise, it might have all been done against the ground itself, though a (easily) 100-pound cross-beam and a 200-pound post, with a 130-pound body (or more, if He were very muscular) added, would have been much to lift, carry, and drop into a hole. Perhaps, even, the feet were not nailed till He was made vertical. There are too many factors to make a best guess here.

However it was, we can be assured that it was done. Three soldiers held Him down and stripped Him of His clothes-- for they intended these for themselves, though the clothes were stained and the outer garments torn. The women sought to give Him a deadening drink, so the pain would be more bearable, but He refused it-- for He had to experience the entire weight of God's judgement. Only then would the Father's wrath would be completely meted out.

Coming over was another soldier-- and in his hands a large mallet. The spike-driver's face was contorted with anger from living in the heat of the moment, having kept the people at bay as they journeyed from the city; the bloodied and wearied Jesus looked up at him-- only half seeing the bearded, hateful face under the man's helmet as the growing morning light blinded His eyes.

Holding Him down, His arms stretched out over the beam, yet another soldier put a spike to His wrists-- though, we can be confident, Jesus did not fight back: For He had resigned Himself to this, as His gift could only be given by this violent affliction.

The flesh could not withstand the sharp point. His head snapped back and He cried out, gasping, as the sharp spike was driven into His wrist between the radius and ulna, and His hands involuntarily clenched into fists. Blood poured out of the wounds as the mallet drove the spike deeper through Him into the rugged wood. He shut His eyes tightly against the final pains of this world: Every blow was driving it deeper through Him and into the beam said to be cursed by God.

After several blows of the mallet, the spike secured to the beam, they went to His other wrist and did the same. He arched in pain, crying out, but He bore it even for their sakes.

His flesh screamed: Burning as if on fire yet still cool, pain radiating through Him and throbbing like His violently beating heart. He endured every intense moment-- still refusing to call the angels to rescue Him, or to display any form of the power and authority He holds.

As this was taking place, a soldier nailed to the top of the post a sign written in Latin, Greek, and Aramaic, which claimed: "YESHUA of NAZARETH. THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS."

While Pilate was writing this, the priests became angered about the inscriptions. "Do not write, 'This is the King of the Jews.' Write, 'He claims to be king of the Jews,'" they told him.

But Pilate, with a wry smile forming on his lips, was more than happy to inflame these wretched subjects of Rome. "I have written what I have written," he responded, and he left it at that.

Soldiers lifted the cross-beam to the main post, Jesus' head rolling to the side as excruciating pain cut through Him, and they pushed His feet up to make His knees bend outward. Pressing His feet firmly against either side of the tree, they drove large spikes between His fibula and tibia (one spike at the ankle of each foot) so they could have the easiest time driving through His flesh to secure His high position looking toward His precious Jerusalem.

He gasped, jerking in anguish, the increase in pain bringing Him back to full alertness. He was between two other criminals-- this place reserved for the worst offender. Pushing Himself up, as He had to so that His body wouldn't crush His lungs and heart, He held Himself there in total anguish-- the Son of God now lifted high, in view of the crowds.

"Father! Forgive them!" He cried out as the last blow of the mallet struck Him. "They don't know what they're doing!"

 Even as He suffered great anguish, He still honoured God. He did this in two ways: He prayed for others, not Himself; and He prayed at the time every Jew was supposed to pray, for it was now 9 AM-- the first hour of prayer. But few others stood with phylacteries on their head, praying. Some were to distraught as they watched this horror happen. Others had come only out of interest, and they weren't pious enough to pray-- or at least make it look like they were praying.   

The soldiers laughed and moved on to the next criminal-- his screams piercing even the stricken heart of Jesus.

As His eyes sought out some comforting face in the crowd, He saw a few of His disciples standing not far off-- though they were interspersed among the on-lookers and hiding from the group of priests. And He saw His mother who was weeping. John was near her, though afraid to take her into his arms.

After some time passed and all three of them were hung, Jesus squinted in the bright light as He surveyed those present, and, upon seeing His mother and John nearer her, He addressed Mary: "Dear women, there is your son." And to John: There, John, is your mother".

Some inner peace must have entered in Him, for He knew that John would take good care of His widowed and aging mother, as John had not his original mother anymore.

As the soldiers cast lots for His clothes-- particularly the seamless inner garment, which would have had great worth-- the priests mumbled among themselves. "He saved others, but he can't even save himself." Looking toward Him, they must have laughed. "King of Israel," they called out, "Come down off that cross and we will believe in you!"

In the same way, the two convicted men on either side of Him also insulted Him for a time. One called out, "'Son of God'! You sinner! If you trust in God so much, then save yourself-- and save us!."

But the other criminal, though suffering great agony, had come to his senses as the sun climbed higher and beat down on his exposed flesh. He realised that this wasn't just a man covered in blood slowly baking under the sun. He realised this beaten, bleeding, forgiving 'man' was, indeed, the Son of God-- sacrificed for even him!

"Don't you fear God?" he called out to the other man. "We're getting our due punishments, but this man has done nothing wrong." Turning to Jesus, he cried, "Christ, remember me when You come into Your Kingdom!"

Jesus weakly turned His head to the repentant criminal and told him, "I tell you the truth: Today, you will be with Me in paradise."