pain (part 3)

you find yourself pushed through a doorway, fighting to get outside and see what happens next. the crowd slows as soldiers begin to form two walls on each side of a path. the crowd begins to swell on either side of the wall, talking amongst themselves, anxiously awaiting their criminal.

a few soldiers emerge from a door followed by the man, Jesus, beaten, bloody, and carrying a rough wooden cross. you cringe and gag at the sight. that poor man, this crowd's criminal, bends under the weight and pain of the cross, wooden edges and splinters biting and digging into his already assaulted back, into the open wounds. blood drips from his back, creating slow streams of drying redness along his body. blood drips from his head as a twisted crown of thorns bites into his skin. blood drips from his feet as the rocks he walks on cut and rip his flesh. sweat and dust cover the blood, and the pain in his face cannot be described.

the tears continue to flow from his face, and the tears again begin to flow from yours. "this man knows me," you think. you try to find a better vantage point, a chance to get closer, to catch his eye again, to feel again the love he has even through the pain you both have.

circling around part of the crowd you hear the screams, taunts, and laughter hurled from their lips. suddenly you hear the snapping of a whip and you look back to see Jesus on the ground, collapsed under the weight of his burden, soldiers, lashing out and kicking him to get up. a man is grabbed from the crowd to carry the cross for him, and the terror on this man's face does not escape you.

after many more painful steps, the crowd and condemned reach a place that, as you've learned, is called the skull. the place where criminals are killed. your tears have finally stopped, not because you feel better, but because you can't cry anymore. somehow, the tears of Jesus have not. you watch as one by one, the soldiers drive massive spikes through the hands and feet of two other men, and then come to Jesus.

you hope above all hopes that this is just a dream, that you'll wake up and this will all be gone. that someone will coming running up, saying there was a mistake, this man is innocent, let him go. that something should happen, someone should do something to make it all go away. then he looks up at you and your eyes meet.

~every horrible feeling and emotion a person could have tears through his body. white intense pain fills his mind as the first swing of the hammer drives the nail. he looks back at this person in the crowd, the same one he saw earlier, standing there. "i love you," flashes through his mind, and seems to seep from his body. his vision is beginning to blur from the loss of blood and mutilation he recieved just earlier. "i love you," comes again.

he turns and looks at the soldier bringing back the hammer, and for a moment their eyes meet, and for a moment he hesitates, and a slight mist fills the soldiers eyes. then with a twist and sadness in his face he brings the hammer down. Jesus sees all of that soldiers offences, his guilt, his sadness, his pain, and arches from it all.

he looks over the crowd, and a suffocating presence begins to creep over his skin. it is coming. he is unaware of the other nails driven through him, assaulted more by the pain and sadness, guilt and evil that is starting to dig into his being.

suddenly he is floating, being lifted upwards by the soldiers, and put in place between the other two men. the crossing falling into place sends a jolt of pain from each nail bringing him back to the reality of this world, and the crowd before him.~

you stare up at this man, wanting to shout out that you are here. but what good would it be? he's a dead man. through the crowds taunts and jeers you stare and shudder in a tearless cry. your eyes sting with dryness and you can't tell if the sky is really getting darker, or if your vision is just going. but you can't leave. you need a loving embrace, one to take you away from all this. you can't do it on your own. you look back at that man on the cross and wish he could hug you, tell you it will be alright. his arms are stretched out as if ready for a hug, and your hands rise slightly desiring his embrace. but it won't come. he's there, nailed brutally to that piece of wood, with the crowd rejoicing at his pain. it makes no sense at all. you wish you could understand.