The Faithbook

A place of writing and reflection…

The Cross

I was with the crowd of scoffers that day; jeering and cursing to set the murderer beside You free. I paid no attention to the blood running down Your brow. The look in Your eyes i could not understand. The things You talked about before were a story to me. My ignorance blinded me to what you really were and yet You stood silent. Silent as a sheep before it’s shearer. You said not a word.

You were lead past me; Your shoulders draped in purple. The color of royalty made a perfect mockery of the truth I knew nothing about. It was the same reason I stood there shouting my curses, but You were there for a different reason we had yet to see, and to disgrace you we chanted. We spit on you and laughed. It was the biggest hoax to us.

I was there as they led you to Golgotha-the Hill of the Skull-a lonely place of death. I watched them hand You the log upon which You were to die. You lifted it painfully. I thought I saw Your legs begin to buckle. You gave your burden another push and you went. Your route was long and your step feeble.

Then I saw her—the woman who bore You into this world. Tears left their tracks on her face. Desperation stained her like the blood dripping from Your body.

Still You pressed on.

You pressed on to a fate none would want to bear. You were labeled with the worst of the worst, but I heard someone proclaiming Your innocence. I looked around to see no one but those cheering Your defeat—and I was amongst them.

All the while, You pressed forward.

At one point you dropped your burden. The sound echoed in my ears above the many voices. It pounded deep into the depths of my soul. Still I did not understand. My heart pounded like the mother who watched her Son walking to His death.

They called for a man to help You. You looked out across the crowd of scoffers and I felt Your eyes fall on me. I silently stared back at You, and for a brief moment I heard the shouting no more. I didn’t hear the wailing. I didn’t hear the man beside you groan under the weight of your load. Instead I thought I heard the heavy beating of Your heart. It throbbed in my ears until I could no longer stand it, yet I could not take my eyes away.

You were a mess. All resemblance of You was gone. They had beat You and flogged You. I could see the ribs that should have remained hidden beneath flesh. The blood left pools at Your feet and trails down Your legs. My heart began to ache at the sight but I could hardly understand why.

You pressed on one painful step at a time. You turned Your eyes away as if to say You must go. I begin to hear the voices of those around me again, but I ignored them now. They laughed and jeered, but I could not. Death was at the door waiting for You to open to him. You were on the way, past the people and down the road the road to the hill upon which You were to be displayed. You knew this, yet made no attempt to escape. You did not call to Your God as the Romans called on their own. You were silent.

I followed.

I pushed past them to see. Surely You would save Yourself as they mocked. You pressed on. Down the path I followed Your steps. Past the city I pursued You. What was to be I wanted to see.

Painfully You marched up hill. The guards behind You laughed. Still You continued to climb.

Was this all You were here for?  Your steps seemed to speak so. Were You only here to die? What about those that followed You day by day? They had all scattered. Indeed I saw them running from the garden with fear in their eyes. What about Your teaching? Was it all for naught? Why did You have to die? Truly we choose to scorn You and selected You to be punished. We had cheered for Your demise, so why has I suddenly realized it was so wrong? Your own people jeered You.

You pressed on to the top of that horrid hill.

They laid You bare upon the beam You had carried. One solider held Your arm while the other drove the nail. Your cry of agony split the air. None could bear the sight as they hammered through Your other. Your breathing was hard.They raised You up onto the post of Your cross between two others sentenced to die the same as You. They positioned Your feet and I turned my head as the last nail went through.

Even in this they still found place to mock You. Above Your head they placed a sign proclaiming You King of the Jews. They gambled for Your robes in Your sight as You hung there above them.  They mocked You and called You to come down. If You were God, why didn’t You? Why did You not save Yourself? Why did You not destroy those of us who scorned You?

Yet You hung there.

The clouds began to turn darker, the longer you were there. The wind picked up and tugged on the fringes of my robe. It shook Your cross but You were not moved. What was this that held You there. Certainly it was not us—not on our own—or did You just have a death wish I wondered.

You asked for drink and they gave You that which was filled with bitterness, so You did not drink.

Then the dying thieves beside You began to speak after much silence. The first opened his mouth and mocked You with his final breath.

“If You are the Son of God, get us down from here. Save Yourself,” he spouted.

I heard the soldiers laugh, but You gazed at the one next to You almost in sorrow for his words, but said nothing.

Then the second spoke his plea: “Please don’t forget me.” His eyes were filled with far more than the pain of the nails and the crushing of his lungs. His eyes were sorrowful with what had lead him to die there so horribly.

Most of all it was Your answer that startled me.

“Today,” You breathed, “Today you shall be in paradise with me.”

The words were struggled in body, yet I knew there was something more to them. What could be paradise? What could be beyond this thing we call life? What happened to just being born, living, and dying? Was there really more? You seemed sure there was.

The storm picked up and it’s wind tore at my clothes so much so I had to move to lower my body to watch. Your cross shook in the gust, but You did not.

You cried out then in a language I did not know. You cried out to the One who had sent You. Deep inside I knew this—it resonated to the depths of my soul and shook its foundation. You lifted up Your eyes towards the heavens with one final cry.

“It is finished!”

Then You breathed Your last.

The ground shook setting loose the nerves of the soldiers beneath You. Those responsible for Your arrest fled in the direction of the Temple just as the twelve I had seen You with before had fled. Fear gripped my soul.

“My God what have we done,” muttered the centurion guarding you. “This really was the Son of God…”

The sky grew black and Earth shook violently. I heard the ground beneath me splitting. The air was dark and stale. It carried with it the taste of death. Then we knew You were dead.

Your mother wailed loudly as one of her other sons tried to console her. You were dead and we had sentenced You as no better than the ones You hug between. What had we done?

Copyright The Faithbook 2012
Picture courtesy of


2 comments on “The Cross

  1. Naphtali
    Apr 06, 2012

    I am almost in tears reading your words. So profound.

  2. Pingback: The Grave of Love « Did Jesus have a Facebook Page?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


Photo curtesy of

In Mosul, ISIS militants marked with a spray-painted ن (the Arabic letter for “N”) all Christian property to be seized after the ultimatum. “N”, or ن​, is the first letter of the Arabic word for Christian, “Nasrani” or Nazarene. #pray4thepersecuted

GodsDreamer on Instagram

There was an error retrieving images from Instagram. An attempt will be remade in a few minutes.

%d bloggers like this: