What We Do

A deep gray sky of lowering clouds and the whip of a strong wind tell of an approaching storm. The high-pitched metallic ring of an iron mallet on an iron spike and the mutters of those who hurt me, are snatched away by the wind, bouncing like echoes against the sharp, piercing pain in my wrist. The rough pinch of splinters from two crossed bars of wood scrape my shoulders and legs. I writhe, trying to pull away. Helpless, held roughly by strong hands, I watch as one iron spike is driven through my wrist. Then my other hand is pulled along the bar and held. Another iron spike is lowered into place.

I sob, “Stop, don’t do this!” Those around me laugh, a harsh and taunting sound. My pain amuses them and I know they will not stop. They toss out jibes and taunts. The cruelty of the moment, the inability to rise from where I am held, the knowledge of sure pain to come and sure death to follow presses down upon me like the iron spike, which presses into my wrist, cutting my flesh as the mallet rings again.

I try to remember who I am, but the knowledge escapes me. I am not ready for this. How could anyone be ready for this? Woven brambles prick my head. The life’s blood of my flesh ebbs out. Pain overwhelms me, coloring my vision. Shudders wrack my body, my breath struggles in and out of my lungs through my sobs.

Confused, I suddenly rise; I have been released. I stand, looking down. I am no longer on the cross. He has taken my place. I watch as they raise Him. His flesh tears as the cross falls with a solid thump into the hole and sways. His blood falls in great drops and runs in rivulets to soak the ground.

“Please forgive me,” I plead, knowing that what I have done has put Him here in my place; and from the cross He whispers, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”