The Cross

Finally Pilate handed him over to them to be crucified. So the soldiers took charge of Jesus. Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha). Jn 19:16-17

So there he was: Whipped nearly to the point of death, lacerated and punctured, his back and chest a cross-hatched pattern of torn bloody stripes. Blood seeped from every inch of his torso and legs. His head dripped from the deep puncture wounds that covered his scalp. And his crown? A nasty skull cap of tangled limbs and thorns encircled his head, gouging the tender flesh and causing unimaginable pain.

"He’s tougher than I thought," one of the scourgers exclaimed. "Most men would have died from that beating."

"Get out of the way," the chief guard shouted pushing him aside and cutting Jesus loose. Jesus fell to the ground exhausted and short of breath. "Now pick it up," the guard demanded, "or you’ll get more!"

Jesus picked up the gnarly piece of heavy timber they’d dropped by his side. He lifted it onto his shoulders and started walking, stumbling across the court.

"Move," the chief guard growled. "Get going, you!"

But Jesus couldn’t take another step. His tortured body cried for mercy. Weak and weary, deep in shock, he fell to his knees. And that awful patibulum. His cross. It weighed his shoulders down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the cartilage at the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.

"He’s shot," a Legionaire scoffed. "Look at him."

"You there," the chief guard shouted pointing into the crowd. "Pick it up! You’ll carry it the rest of the way!" A stout African stepped forward and lifted the heavy board from Christ’s shoulders. "Now get up," the guard shouted striking him atop the head. Jesus cried as the needle sharp thorns gouged deeper into his scalp. "Get going," the guard yelled. "Move!"

Christ struggled to rise to his feet. He strained to see. Blood covered his face. Pain clouded his senses. He continued up the road dragging his tortured body through the city gates and up the steep dirt path that led to Golgatha…

The place of the skull.

I wonder what Jesus was thinking about at that moment. Death? The agony yet to come? Well the Gospels tell us that on the night before this all began, Christ knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. But he didn’t pray for himself, he prayed for us.

Why? Didn’t he know what was coming? I can assure he knew what was coming. Luke tells us that his agony was so intense, his sweat fell like drops of blood. A physiological phenomenon, called hemohydrosis. Something that occurs only rarely when the tiny capillary beds in the victim’s skin come under such intense pressure that the blood literally seeps through the capillary walls and into the ducts of sweat. Oh yes, he knew what was coming. And yet instead of running away he knelt and prayed, for his disciples first, and then for you and me.

So in his darkest hour as he mounted that horrible skull-shaped hill, I’m certain he knew what was coming. But he was thinking of us.

"Stretch him out!"

The guards wasted no time. They threw the battered Jesus atop the wooden cross. They grabbed his arms and legs. Pulled them tight.

"Now, crucify him!"

And three horrible nails appeared. Ugly nine inch spikes formed on a blacksmith’s anvil for one purpose: To crucify the Lord.

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Have you ever stopped to think of the true price Jesus Christ paid for you? Well this frightening adventure is not over yet. It’s really just beginning. And as you anticipate the finale, that bloody spectacle of Roman sport they called crucifixion, consider this: He did this for us. He did it for you.

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