The soldiers dragged Jesus down the steps and across the street and laid the cross beam prepared for Barabbas across his shoulders.

Weak from the lack of sleep and loss of blood, Jesus only took a few steps when the beam fell to the ground. I tried pushing through the crowd, but the Romans had already pulled a bystander out of the crowd before I could get there.

“Simon,” I didn’t recognize the voice, but it’s incredible how you can hear your name, even on a crowded street. I started making my way toward the woman, yelling my name, but as I got closer, I realized that it wasn’t me she was calling to, but the man who now carried Jesus’ cross. She listened in horror as the soldiers told her that her husband would be released only after carrying the cross to Golgotha. The place of the skull.

Again the words of Jesus came to mind, “Unless you take up your cross and follow me, you can’t call yourself a disciple of mine.” I knew his words would haunt me forever, and I knew I had failed him. Again.

As the soldiers led Jesus and Simon through the streets to the outskirts of the city, I heard people jeering and mocking Jesus as he passed them by. I wondered how many of those mocking Jesus now had asked him for a miracle in the past and how many of these same people had wanted to crown him king just a week ago? I marveled at how fickle people could be. The question is always the same, “What’s in it for me?”

We were within sight of the place the Romans used for their crucifixions. The slight rise where the bodies of the criminals were displayed was supposed to serve as a deterrent to others, and the fact that the hill bore had a crude resemblance to a human skull lent a certain finality to what happened there.

The centurion in charge called the group to a halt and spoke to Jesus. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but the intent was clear. Jesus would have to carry his cross the rest of the way himself.

Taking the beam from Simon, the soldiers sent him on his way and placed the load across Jesus’ shoulders. At first, Jesus struggled under the weight, but then he seemed to get his second wind. He straightened as much as he could under the weight of the beam and walked up the grade to Golgotha.

What happened next is hard to describe, but it was harder to watch.

The soldiers led Jesus to an area that had been cleared of people. There was no one close enough to either help or hinder the professionals. This was just a job to these men, a job they did every day and a job they did well.

Taking the cross beam from Jesus, they lashed it to the longer upright section laying on the ground.

Jesus’ outer robe was pulled off. Surprisingly even though it was soaked through with blood, it hadn’t been torn at all. I was pretty sure that before the day was over, it would have a new owner, one who spoke the language of Rome.

One of the soldiers walked over with a laurel of thorns, he said something that made the rest of them laugh, and then he jammed it down onto Jesus’ head. Blood ran freely down Jesus’ face.

            The soldier turned and held up a sign, “Pilate ordered that this be placed on his cross. It says ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews’ and every king needs a crown.”