Can you imagine it? We’ll I know we really can’t but I’m going to try and paint the picture.
Jesus came down to live with us, and love us. Comfortable, ruler in heaven, and outcast and hated on earth.
Grew up poor, worked as a carpenter, the creator of the world living in obscurity.
He began his ministry based on love, teaching people to love God. Instead he was betrayed by the men he came to save, falsely tried and sentenced to die:
People shouted insults as him as his back felt like it was on fire. Blood pouring out of the lashes on his back, he grimaced under the weight of the wooden cross on his back. Its rough splinters caught the open wounds on his back. His vision was blurry, blood from his head was flowing down into his eyes, he could hardly see the mob surrounding him, pelting him with anything they could find. The walk was slow and uphill, he could hardly move his legs. The road was tough and the journey seemed to take hours. His muscles burned, begging him to stop for just a moment. Surrounding him were Roman soldiers, who would love nothing more for him to quit and to give him extra lashings in exchange for a second of rest.
His head was throbbing with pain, thorns pierced his scalp, sweat from his forehead was getting into each wound, furthering his plight. He charged forward, ignoring the pain that was overcoming his body. Forward he moved, through jeers and scorns of the crowd. The very people he loved, The people he had come to save want nothing more than to humiliate him and murder him. He felt no anger, only pain, he had nobody to help him. It was just him, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t see the father, The father who had led him, through his life. The father who he freely conversed, Abba, who was always with him. Why was he now silent?
He hit a rock and his knees buckled under the misstep. He fell forward and the wooden cross fell on top of him, hitting his head and driving the thorns deeper into his head. The crowd laughed at him, then sent more vicious slurs his way. A lash licked his feet and the soldiers pushed him up. His face was now solemn, his face looked as he was going to cry, all his strength was leaving him. They put the cross on his back and made him continue to the top of the hill.
His face was now blank, pushing the cross further, his load too much than he can bear, he finally fell again, unable to carry the cross again. A traveler was chosen from the crowd to carry the cross for Jesus to the top of the hill. Jesus staggered upwards, further shouts came, those in the crowd further humiliating him. Soldiers were kicking his legs out from him, laughing every time he would fall. The crowds would grab his clothes and rip off pieces and hold each piece as a trophy. Nearly naked he finally made it to the top, collapsing on the black ground, bloodied and half naked.
to be continued
