.:King of the Jews:.

Last year, I was told about a literature competition at my college. I was told about this the day before the deadline. You could write short stories, poems, or take part in the photography. If you won first prize, you got $100 dollars, your work would be published, you'd get your name engraved on a nice plaque that sits on some random wall of the college and you'll probably never be able to find it again but, hey, it's a nice gesture anyways, and you'd get to read your work in front of an audience.

I went home that night and worked my butt off for about three hours to come up with a short story. I researched and compared Gospel stories. Then, I emailed it to my teacher after much blood, sweat, and tears. Especially the tears. Not joking. This story was hard to write for me.

And I won.

I received the cash prize, got my name stamped on a plaque, read my story in front of colleagues, scholars, and family, and became a published author. So here's what I wrote:


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King of the Jews



It was hot. So hot. The sun seemed to beat down extra hard that day as I toiled away in the fields. My farming equipment wasn't that great either, so the work was even harder. I had had to buy a new hoe the previous day because my last one had broken. The new one I bought wasn't much better, though. After complaining for half of the day about my rotten luck, I sneaked and exchanged the new tool for my son's old, worn-in one. He was younger. He had a stronger body. He could break it in for me this time.

I smiled at my clever trickery and went back to working the soil in the fields. The dirt was hard and crumbly, and it was much easier to plow through now that I had one of my own tools back. I stayed close to the outbuilding that contained our farming equipment, keeping my eye on the new piece of equipment.

Sure enough, my son Alexander walked up. He looked around for his tool and then took the new one in his hand. Settling for the new one, unknowingly falling into my little trap, he hung it over his shoulder and went back to his area of the fields to work.

I chuckled to myself.

As the sun began to rise higher in the sky, the day just seemed to get hotter. I finally couldn't take it anymore. I put my things away and called my boys to me.

“We'll finish the job tomorrow,” I said. “It's just too hot today.”

Alexander and my younger son, Rufus, smiled and nodded brightly. Apparently I wasn't the only one wishing to go home that day.

I gathered our things into my rucksack and slung it over my shoulder before heading out at the head of the line. I didn't live that far away from the fields and the trip normally took only a few minutes. But as I reached the main road, I saw that the entire path was blocked by people. And not just regular people....

These were screaming people. People all over the place shouting and throwing their fists into the air. I couldn't see past any of them. To say the least, it was frustrating.

“What is going on?” I asked myself, stretching up on my toes to try and see what was so interesting to the rest of the mob.

“Hey, Dad!” Alexander shouted from somewhere behind me. “Rachel and Thomas are over there. Can we go see them?”

“Yeah, sure.” I answered, not really paying attention to my children as I tried to peer through the thick crowd. I needed to cross this street to get home.

A bit frustrated, I began shoving my way through the people. Sometimes, they shoved back. But I kept it up. Even though all of their voices had kind of blurred into this loud, buzzing sound, some of the people I passed were screaming things that I could understand.

“Kill him!” One of them shouted.

“He's a liar!”

“A criminal!”

“He deserves death!”

Just what on earth had I stepped into? More curious than ever, and a bit frightened now, I weaved my way through to the front of the crowd. The road had been completely cleared. There were hundreds of people standing on each side of the road, but the path itself was empty.

“What the...?” I stretched my neck out to look both ways. There appeared to be nothing interesting happening. Again, I stood up on my toes to try and get a better look. Over the hill to my left, I could see something silver. At first, it looked like a weapon, but the closer it came and the higher up on the hill it got, I could see that the silver, gleaming object was actually that of a helmet. A soldier's helmet. A Roman soldier's helmet.

Holy cow! I thought to myself as more of the soldiers appeared. Each of them were shouting at the crowds and pushing people back into place as they walked. If the Roman soldiers were here, something big had to be going down. My curiosity flared and I couldn't keep myself from leaning out further, into the street, to see what could have gotten such attention from the Romans.

There was a collective moaning from the people around me as the Romans came within feet of us. I hadn't seen before, but the crowds were actually throwing things- rocks, garbage, tools, you name it- at the group of soldiers.

“Get back!” One of them ordered me, shoving me back off of the road. I stumbled against the person behind me. The moaning grew louder. I could hear women screaming and sobbing hysterically. The person behind me cursed and shoved me forward again. I stumbled out onto the road.

I knew why the screams were louder.

The Romans hadn't been the center of attention. What they were guarding had been.

My eyes were fixed on the face of a man. He was hunched over, underneath a massive, wooden cross. The Roman soldiers were surrounding him, protecting him, as he struggled to make his way down the road. The crowd was flooding in behind the man.

I probably would have been able to look away, to ignore the criminal, if I hadn't seen the state he was in. His hands, covered in blood and ripped open, were grasping the short arm of the cross on his back as if it were his savior. His face, partially hidden by the long dark hair on his head, was pressed up against the wood. His clothes, a simple robe that had been white at one time, was sticky with crimson blood and dirt from the ground.

I couldn't look away.

As I stood there, his eyes opened and he turned his face ever so slightly. But his eyes focused on mine. At that moment, I felt something flood my body. I couldn't explain the feeling, but my hands and knees were shaking. I watched as the man's hands slipped from the cross and he fell to the earth. The Roman guards rushed in to catch the heavy, wooden cross before it fell on top of him.

One of the guards kicked the man in the side, spat on him, and screamed at him to get up. I watched the man struggle to his hands and knees, but he couldn't make it to his feet.

The Roman guard cursed and looked around. His cold, heartless eyes rested on me.

“You there.” He pointed directly at me and marched over. “Get in there and carry it.” He grabbed the front of my shirt and tossed me at the man on the ground.

The man tilted his face up to look at mine. Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth! That was this man's name! I knew I had seen him before, but that was so long ago. And he certainly hadn't looked like this back then. Wasn't he the one the people had claimed to be their Savior? Their God? Wasn't he the one that had fed the thousands of people with only five loaves of bread and two fish? Hadn't I eaten that meal?

His dark eyes, glassy and filled with a stress that could not be imagined, appraised me for a moment before the Roman guard rested the wooden cross on my shoulder. It was unimaginably heavy. I stumbled at first while the other guards pulled Jesus to his feet and shoved him into the other side of the cross. His warm hands touched mine.

I looked at him again. He had his face resting on the cross. I could hear the labored breathing coming from his chest and saw now that his hair was dark with congealed blood that dripped from the ring of thorns embedded into his skull. The sight was almost revolting. Not just because blood made me queasy, but also because of the fact that this man, this poor man, was being put through all of this. I couldn't understand. I knew that this crowd, the one surrounding us, had once worshiped him as the promised Messiah. I knew that on this road, as well as many others, they laid out palm leaves for him because they loved him so. Were these not the same people that threw rocks at him now? That shouted for him to be put to death? That wanted him to die this way?

“Move it.” One of the guards ordered, and I was forced to drag the wooden posts across the ground. It was so heavy. Jesus stumbled only to keep up. My shoulders were already beginning to ache. I had been working in the fields since sun up and my body was tired.

Jesus coughed and I looked over to see blood spurting out of his lips. He was really in bad shape. How long had he been carrying this cross before I had come? How long would we still have to go?

His hands began slipping again.

“No!” I shouted. His face turned to me. “You can do it.”

His eyes focused on mine once more before looking straight ahead again.

My legs were beginning to quiver. I was breathing heavy now. I looked over to see Jesus' head tilted down, toward the earth. His back was arched as he walked along. My eyes widened at the sight. His back, covered by his outer garment, was seeping blood. From the neck hole, I could see deep, throbbing wounds. The blood was running so thickly and so pure that the wounds themselves looked black with the rich, crimson color of it.

He slipped again.

“Jesus!” I cried. He stood back up. “Don't give up!” My words were loud, but the crowds were louder. I wasn't sure if he'd heard me. “We're almost there, don't give up.”

He looked at me again, wheezing and breathing heavily, and his eyes were different somehow. Stronger, powerful. He would never give up, despite the circumstances. Not on me, not on anyone.

I watched as he turned his head again, to look forward, and I took my eyes off of him. I looked to where he looked and I saw a large hill.

“Golgotha.” I whispered. This was the hill where criminals were put to death by the most gruesome means. The worst death someone could bear was the crucifixion.

It all made sense now. This cross... this was for his crucifixion. The people were going to crucify him.

But no one had ever had to carry their cross before. No one had ever been beaten to near death before they were crucified.

What crime could this man have committed that he would deserve a punishment such as this?

“You're done here.” The Roman guard from earlier grabbed me again and tried to tear me away from him. But I fought back. I didn't want to leave him. I didn't want to make him carry that heavy cross again. But there were a few guards that came to take my place when I was finally ripped away from him and tossed carelessly aside.

I quickly recuperated and ran to catch up with the guards that were practically carrying him up the hill now. The crowds were faster than me. People easily raced by me and I was, once again, left at the back of the crowd.

I tried to see what was happening. I tried to squeeze between the people, but I couldn't. The crowds were really fighting now. Nobody wanted to miss witnessing this.

I sighed. There was no way I was getting through this mess.

As I stood there, looking through any opening that I might be able to peek through, I heard more hysterical screams. I looked over to see a woman crying. She looked familiar. I couldn't recognize her until a young man wrapped his arms around her and began forcing their way through. Mary. That must have been Jesus' mother. Jesus never left his mother. I had seen him preach many a time and she had always been there with him.

Oh, how she must have been hurting now! To see her son being put through this and being unable to do anything to stop it!

I brought my hand up to my face, to cover my gaping mouth, as I listened to the all-too-familiar clank! clank! clank! of the nails into the wood, through human flesh. I had witnessed crucifixions before. They were never a pretty sight.

Clank! Clank! Clank! The next nail, probably through his other hand. I couldn't hear him screaming, if he was, over the noise the crowd was making.

Clank! Clank! Clank! The feet were always last. They were usually nailed together. I cringed and covered my eyes with my hand.

Clank! Clank! Clank!

What? What could they be nailing this time? Hadn't they already nailed his hands and feet together? Were they nailing his head too?

I shook my head and opened my eyes. Over the heads of the people in front of me, I could see the Roman soldiers trying to lift the cross up, into place. It took quite a few tries, the cross was extremely heavy, before they managed to fit it into the hole in the ground. The wooden cross shook violently once as it settled into place, and Jesus' body- bare now except for his undergarment,- lurched forward from the force of it. I could see the physical pain show on his face as he cried out in agony. Blood dripped from his skin, probably into a pool around the base of his cross. He had lost a lot of blood.

I jumped up once to see if I was missing anything, but I wasn't as tall as the people in front of me. I could only see that Jesus was suspended in the air and the Romans were hanging up two more criminals, one on each side of him.

I could see now why the fourth nail was put in. There was a sign with sloppy writing on it that hung above Jesus' head. Squinting my eyes, I could make out the message: “Here is Jesus, King of the Jews”.

So... they had known then.

I felt my head shaking. I was absolutely appalled. How could they have done this to him? They knew that he really was their Savior, their Messiah, didn't they? He hadn't just claimed it out of insanity. At one time, these people, his people, had loved him. They had worshiped him. They had believed in him. Now... now they made a mockery of him. They laughed and scolded him. They spat at him and threw things. They beat him. They crucified him.

I couldn't stop the tears that began streaming down my cheeks. Why would they do such a thing? He was the Messiah! He was God's Son!

“Hey, You!” Someone near me shouted. I watched the smiling man as he waved his hands in the air. “King of the Jews, if you really are God's Son, why don't you come down from the cross right now?” He shouted. The people around him cheered him on.

“Yeah!” Someone else cried. “We'd believe you if you did that!”

I looked at them in disgust. How could they say something like that? But, at the same time, I too wondered why he didn't come down from the cross. Why would he choose to die this way? Why would he let anyone do this to him? Why would... why would God let this happen to himself?

I looked back at Jesus, whose head was tilted backward, toward heaven. Very quietly, under my breath, I whispered, “Come down. Please come down.” I shut my eyes tightly. “Please come down, Jesus. Show them. Show them all that you really are who you say you are....”

As soon as I opened my eyes again, I heard him cry out. The crowd quieted down so much that I could hear his strangled breaths reverberating off of the stone walls. I watched as he tilted his head back toward the ground and then at heaven once more.

“Father!” He screamed in agony. “Forgive them, for they know not what they do...” his words ended in a shaky, warbled noise as tears strangled his breath and stole it from his suffocating body. His head fell back down and someone in the front wailed and sobbed.

Probably Mary, I thought before the people began shouting and hollering again. I hung my head. I could do nothing for this man.

I turned to leave. As I made it to the final gate before hitting the road that would lead me home, I heard Jesus once again shout.

“Father,” his voice rang out down the hill and into my ears. His voice was still strangled and broken, but stronger than the last shout. “I put myself in your hands.”

My heart felt as if it had dropped into my stomach. I cried again and then gasped as the earth began to move from underneath me.

“The curtain!” A priest from the temple came rushing past me, stumbling across the rumbling ground. “The curtain in the temple has been torn!”

The ground shook violently and the storm clouds above boomed with thunder. Without looking behind me, I ran the rest of the way home.

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Note: Some revisions were made. Also, I meant to put this up on Good Friday, but I forgotted. 8B

+Lost and Uncertain+

A poem that I wrote yesterday, capturing some of my feelings lately.

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I thought I knew what you want me to do,
I thought I knew who you want me to be.
Why do I now feel so confused?
Why won't you make it clear to me?

Is this where I'm headed? The road to nowhere?
Just stumbling around like a fool?
Why does it feel like you don't even care?
Why won't you tell me what to do?

I live my life for you every day,
I thought you cared for me, too.
So why are you letting me feel this way?
I want to know what to do.

So many decisions are coming up fast,
and it feels like I'm at a loss.
I don't know exactly how long I can last,
or what the decisions will cost.

It was all so clear before, don't you see,
and I don't know what has changed,
but suddenly you're not here with me,
and these things you just won't explain.

Why make things appear the way that they are
if they aren't going to be that at all?
I knew what I was doing, I made it this far,
but now all of those hopes and dreams fall.

You better work fast if you know what you'll do,
I'm giving you all of my being.
But I'll tell you right now, I don't understand you,
and I cannot see what you're seeing.

The future's uncertain, I feel like I'll drown!
I'm tired of worry and strife!
Don't get my hopes up if you'll just let me down.
Please, just take control of this life.