To Be Least

I was there when Jesus bled. Wrapping the dangling cords of torture around my hands, I smiled with sincere joy. Before me, Jesus laid trapped in a huddled mass of beaten flesh. I saw his brown eyes look up at me with love. I turned away.

Sinewy ropes flew through the silence. A cry responded and the blood spattered far. Nothing, not even the cry of an innocent man would stop me. Again and again I let them fly, digging them deep into the wounds, only to rip them out once more.

Many hours later, I led this Jesus through the streets of Jerusalem. Crowds pushed for the chance to strike and people shouted hoping their mockery would be heard. I saw out of the corner of my eye what they thirsted for. Before them and God, I spat down on Jesus’ tearful face to receive cheers and loud applause from the crowds that surrounded us. Eventually, we made our way out of the city and to the wretched place of the skull.

It was upon that skull that I had my greatest joy yet. Reaching down deep into my pockets, I clasped a rusty nail.

It was time.

Jesus fell upon the cross beams and I sliced through his palm sending pain screaming through his body. Again, his eyes stared deep into me, probing my inner soul. Again, I looked away. When all was done, I lifted the structure of Roman torture high and strong. Against the sky, he could be seen gasping out forgiveness.

I killed Jesus, the King of the Jews.

It was my sin that cut deep lacerations into his body and it was my sin that crucified him on that day. Every time I lied, or lusted he wept with the pain of torture. Every sin was a nail through his hand and a tear from his eye.

Yet, it was for me that he died.