Young Writers Society

I walk out, and the sun blinds me. I blink and let my eyes adjust to the light. There is a large crowd being held back by Roman soldiers. They are fierce, tough, and strong. I know my father will protect me.

A soldier walks up to me and smirks while he places a crown of thorns on my head. My hair and my beard are thick, but the thorns are tight around my skull and cut into my flesh. I can already feel droplets of blood forming around the crown of my head. All the soldiers smirk and jeer at me. This is when their fun begins.

Most of them have whips. Others sport various other torture devices that are meant for me. I know I will die for their sins, it's a shame they won't at least accept me as their savior. My father told me it would be like this. He also said that my death wouldn't be the end of everything. So I am not afraid.

The first lash comes and stings my skin. I try not to flinch. I am dressed with only a loin cloth around my waist. The soldiers close in on me and whip my back and my chest. The crowd jeers, many cry. My mother, Mary, tries to mop up my blood with blankets. Each flick of the soldiers wrists brings more pain. Tears run down my cheeks, but I'm not sobbing. The worst is yet to come.

A soldier pulls out a whip like weapon, except it is made of metal and has something like a claw at the end. A single flick of his wrist, and the claw is embedded into my skin. He yanks, and my skin goes with it. This time, I scream in pain. I don't know how much longer I can take this. I don't doubt my heavenly father. I lift my eyes to the sky, and pray. Another lash of the soldier's metal claw device makes me cry out again.

This goes on for an hour. Maybe two. The pain is so great, it's difficult for me to keep track of time. A few of the soldiers bring out a big wooden cross. I want to smile. No wooden structure can be larger than God, my father. He will protect me. The soldiers push the wooden cross at my back. It falls to the ground. I slowly bend down to pick it up. I can think of no way to easily drag the cross, so I hoist it over my back.

A Roman soldier hits me in the jaw. I drop the cross to the ground. At least they will torture me with their bare hands rather than instruments of pain and suffering. They hit my in the face and the stomach until I am almost kneeling.

"Kneel." They yell and laugh. I will not do it.

"Kneel! Bow down to our ruler!" They shout. They get more angry. I will not kneel. I feel my knees go rigid, and I feel stronger. I silently thank The Father. I let the soldiers hit me and beat me up. I make no move against them. This is in God's plan for me. I will carry it out.

Mary kneels at my feet. She cries and begs the soldiers to stop hurting me. The cross lays in the dirt. I pick it up when the soldiers have had their fun, and I walk.

Every part of me is bleeding and screaming in agony. I taste blood in my mouth, Blood rolls down in drops from my forehead and clouds my vision. My hands sting, and I can feel the rough wood creating splinters in my arms. With each step, I want to collapse. I look at my feet and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I send another prayer to the heavens. During this whole time, I talk to God. I know he can hear me, and my prayers will be answered.

My loincloth still covers my modesty, but it is stained almost totally red with blood. The hardest part of this is seeing Mary shed tears over my pain. She mops up my blood as I walk.

I think of when I was twelve. I remember that my family and I had gone to Jerusalem for Passover. I did not return with my family, but stayed behind in one of my father's temples with other teachers. Mary and Joseph had been so frantic. I am careful to not let my lips curl up in a smile. Despite the intense pain, I am glad I can remember good things from when I was happy.

Eventually, we are there. The land is sandy and rocky with clumps of dirt and mud. Crosses with criminals and thieves on them span out across the land. I will be nailed by my hands and my feet, just like a common criminal. I am no criminal. I am the son of God. I am Jesus.

The soldiers secure my cross into the ground. My right hand is placed palm out on one side. A soldier holds a rusty and bloody nail to my hand. He places a mallet gently against the head of it, then swings his arm back. He pounds the mallet into the nail. I cry out. The nail is slightly dull, so it doesn't go clean through. As the nail pierces my bone, I want to scream. Instead, I bite my lip until it bleeds.

Finally, the nail goes through to the wooden cross. The soldier nails my other hand, and my feet as well. Each bang of the mallet against my hand hurts more than the last. My feet are worse. They were already raw and bleeding from the long walk with the cross on my back.

Finally, it's over. Eventually the crowd melts away. In the distance, I can see people praying. I notice that Mary isn't there. She is probably still back at the path, mopping up my blood and sobbing. The sun beats down on me. My hands and my feet burn and flames of pain burn through my limbs. I look to the people next to me.

On my right, is a thief. His ribs are prominent through his skin. He wears a loin cloth similar to mine. I can see tears running down his face. He turns to me.

"Forgive me Jesus. I did not know God before this instance. Is it too late to repent for my ignorance and my sins?" I am relieved. This, I can do. I can absolutely save this man from going to hell.

"As you have asked me, you are saved. Devote the rest of your life to God, the Father, and he will accept you into heaven. Although you are a thief, if you are truly sorry for what you have done, God will accept you as a part of his family." I can see now the man's tears are tears of pain and joy. I have saved him and he knows this. I turn to the murderer on my left. He confesses to what he has done, and begs for passage into heaven. I tell him the same thing.

After a few hours, my tongue is dry. I have no more tears to cry, so I begin to pray with my dry and broken voice. The thief and the murderer are dead. I know I will soon be dead with them.

Judging by the angle of the sun in the sky, it has been 4 hours. The hours seem like an eternity. I am ready. I know that what will come next will change history forever.

It has now been over 5 hours. The pain is unbearable. It has been unbearable for the entire day. The sun beats down on my face, and the thorns on the crown upon my head still pierce my skill. I look down at my legs, and over at my arms. My skin is so filthy, it looks like my skin is made of dried blood and scabs. I watch the sun recede, my vision is going dark. It's over. My pain is finally over.

When I awake, I am cold. I am wrapped in bandages, like a mummy. I can't see my hand in front of me. The pain is gone. My wounds are quickly healing. I push myself to my feet and wince. I am a little stiff, but it's not too bad. I take tentative steps forward with my hands in front of me. I push my hands against whatever I touch. I move along the wall, and I feel the stone give. I push and shove with all of my might until the stone rolls away.

The sunlight touches my skin once again. Except this time, the sun is almost hugging me. I feel enveloped in warmth. I hear My Father in my head.

My son, you have done well. After 40 days and 40 nights, we will be together again. Now go to the people, rejoice. Show them that death cannot conquer the Lord.

As I walk to follow My Father's order, I close my eyes and hold my arms out to the sun.

I am free.