Pilate washed the external guilt of Jesus' death from his hands.
Royal mockery was placed on his head and body. Scorn spit from the mouths of young soldiers. The whips were released over and over, sending pain through every bone in Christ's body. Separating joints, tearing through muscles. The splinters of the cross bear down on his torn body.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Jesus had one simple task, make it up the hill. It was almost over. It was just beginning.
The beatings continued as women in the crowd buried their heads into their shaking hands. None of this made sense. Didn't the prophets promise a King? Death is the fate given to the king of defeat. This King cannot even save Himself from torture by the Romans.
As Jesus plods towards Golgotha, he turns his head to look into the hearts of the crowd. Looking through the bruised skin into Jesus' eyes a woman sees His resolve. He pushes the sweaty, stained hair from His eyes to glance at a young boy. Despite the agony, the boy sees in Jesus only hope. There is never panic or fear in Jesus, simply a son being asked to do what His Father asks of him.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Stop.
The soldiers lift the heavy wood and fashion it into a cross. Their workday almost done. A few final blows and this criminal would be finished reeking havoc on this earth.
