Just a set of short pieces on the Crucifixion I’ve been writing right now. I’m not a writer so please don’t expect high quality here.
(WARNING: some strong language)
I. Forgive Them
The morning sun got in HIS eyes. Above HIM, murders of crows cried out in loud voices, wailing like mourners in a dirge. HE was in a forest: a forest of wooden posts and gibbets on which dead men hung. The smell of rotting flesh and human waste which wafted in the area was unbearable. Swarms of flies darted past HIM and sucked on HIS gaping, open sores.
HIS vision was blurred. HE would have wiped HIS face, drenched with sweat and blood, were his hands and arms not outstretched and fastened with nails to the wooden beam. Not only HIS hands, but also HIS stretched-out legs and feet were also pinned on the post which supported the beam. From these wounds came intense pain every time he tried to move his fingers and shifted his feet. Those who nailed HIM there were experts: HE was leaning on a ‘seat’ attached halfway down the beam. It helped relieve HIS legs of HIS weight, but it in itself was another device of torture: it served to prolong the victim’s life, and with it, his suffering.
Everything was silent though just off at the roads at a short distance came the faint sounds of passersby, going in or coming out of the city. For a brief moment, HE thought HE could some shouts and sounds of weeping. HE squinted hard to look and saw a small gathering on the roadside, near to where HE was.
“Come down! Save yourself! Call upon the Lord!”
“Yes, come down from there, King of Israel! If you come down I’ll be your disciple!”
One sounded like an honest plea, the other a mocking sneer. More voices, some loud, some hushed, came in and went.
“Shut up! Let this man be!”
“Oh, so you’re standing up for him? Why not go there and take him down, for a start? If you dare go past those guards there.”
“You whoreson, you corrupt city-dweller!”
“At least I’m not like you, you ignorant country hick!”
“If God really loved him, why doesn’t he send down his Messengers to rescue him now?”
“…treating an innocent person like this…”
“Save yourself, Prophet!”
“They’re executing people again, at this holy season!”
“What!? They’re killing even him?”
“O God of Hosts! Save this holy man!”
“Don’t even look there!”
“Michael, Gabriel, Suriel, Raphael!”
“What a horrible way to die, I could tell you…”
“They’re at it again. They never really know how to respect us.”
“Son of God!”
Nearer to HIM sat down three to four men. They have tried to busy themselves with gambling, but they have soon gotten tired of it. The heap of rags which until a while ago were HIS clothes lay stacked at a corner, as a scruffy, unkempt street dog which roamed about the area sniffed on it.
“This is the part I don’t like…waiting for these b******s to die here outside.”
“You still have posca there? 'Fraid my ration’s about to run out.”
“No wonder; you’ve been drinking ever since we got here!”
“By the way, what is that man in for?”
“Can’t you read the sign, you idiot? Says he’s been claiming titles for himself. Says he’s the ‘King of the Judaeans’ or something. Instant death penalty, that one.”
“Is he now? I don’t see his armies!”
“Oh, perhaps they’re just hiding, lying in wait.”
“Great. More victims mean we spend more time here.”
“You think anyone would dare come near here?”
“Nah, they never do. They content themselves with shouting, but really they’re just cowards, these Judaeans.”
“Oi. You.” One of them came near to HIM. “What a fine king you are. You must be thirsty. Want a drink?” He splashed the contents of his bowl down HIS face. (The gibbet HE was affixed into was not very tall – HE was only a foot or less above the ground.) “King of the Judaeans,” he sneered as he sat back down, refilled his bowl, and slurped loudly.
They do not know.
[INDENT]You do know why you are here, do you not? Your high priest says that you’ve come to this city being hailed as a king and have, by your words and actions, performed seditious acts against our Empire. If that is true, you are just as dangerous to the Roman Peace as, if not more than, the brigands who roam the countrysides. Surely, I need not remind you that claiming titles and fomenting rebellion would make you eligible for a death sentence. No need for a trial: I could just say the word, and you’ll be dead in no time. Let me then ask you: is this charge true? Are you a king?
[INDENT]If my kingdom is here, don’t you think my followers would have prevented my arrest? No, my kingdom is not here. Not on earth.
You have never answered my question. LISTEN TO ME! Tell me in plain words: are you, or are you not, a king?
King - that’s your word. I have but one purpose: I came here to give witness to the truth–
What is this? Have the priests been playing tricks with me again!? I’ve no time to deal with madmen and their delusions. Stop feigning ignorance - I’ve no time for jokes. What ‘truth’?[/INDENT]
No, they do not know.
FORGIVE THEM…ABBA, THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING; FORGIVE THEM.
After croaking the words with HIS parched throat, HE slunk HIS head, as if being driven to sleep by the chorus of birds and insects, and everything went black.[/INDENT]